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诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇
賳噩賮 丿乇蹖丕亘賳丿乇蹖 丿乇 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 丕亘鬲丿丕蹖 讴鬲丕亘 賲蹖鈥屬嗁堐屫池�: 诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 毓賳賵丕賳蹖鈥屫池� 讴賴 賲賳 乇賵蹖 丕蹖賳 乇賲丕賳 诏匕丕卮鬲賴鈥屫з呚� 夭蹖乇丕 賳鬲賵丕賳爻鬲賴鈥屫з� 毓賳賵丕賳 丕氐賱蹖 丌賳 乇丕 亘賴 毓亘丕乇鬲蹖 讴賴 禺賵丿 亘倬爻賳丿賲 亘賴 賮丕乇爻蹖 丿乇丌賵乇賲. 芦賴賲趩賵賳 讴賴 丿乇丕夭 讴卮蹖丿賴 亘賵丿賲 賵 丿丕卮鬲賲 賲蹖鈥屬呝徹必吢� 讴賵鬲丕賴鈥屫臂屬� 毓亘丕乇鬲蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲賳 賲毓賳丕蹖 毓賳賵丕賳 丕氐賱蹖 乇丕 丿賯蹖賯丕賸 亘蹖丕賳 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�.
诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 郾鄣 乇丕賵蹖 丿丕乇丿 讴賴 賴乇蹖讴 丿乇 乇賵丕蹖鬲 禺賵丿貙 亘賴 卮讴賱蹖 賴賵卮蹖丕乇丕賳賴 賵 賯丕亘賱 爻鬲丕蹖卮 賴賲鈥屫迟� 賵 爻丕賱 禺賵丿 丨乇賮 賲蹖鈥屫操嗁嗀�. 乇賵丕蹖鬲鈥屫簇з� 亘乇 倬丕蹖賴贁 丿蹖丿 禺賵丿卮丕賳 賵 亘乇 丕爻丕爻 爻胤丨 賲毓賱賵賲丕鬲 賵 賮賴賲 禺賵丿卮丕賳 丕爻鬲. 丕蹖賳 亘丕毓孬 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 丿蹖乇鬲乇 丿乇 匕賴賳 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 卮讴賱 诏蹖乇丿.
趩丕倬 丕賵賱 郾鄢鄯郾
诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 郾鄣 乇丕賵蹖 丿丕乇丿 讴賴 賴乇蹖讴 丿乇 乇賵丕蹖鬲 禺賵丿貙 亘賴 卮讴賱蹖 賴賵卮蹖丕乇丕賳賴 賵 賯丕亘賱 爻鬲丕蹖卮 賴賲鈥屫迟� 賵 爻丕賱 禺賵丿 丨乇賮 賲蹖鈥屫操嗁嗀�. 乇賵丕蹖鬲鈥屫簇з� 亘乇 倬丕蹖賴贁 丿蹖丿 禺賵丿卮丕賳 賵 亘乇 丕爻丕爻 爻胤丨 賲毓賱賵賲丕鬲 賵 賮賴賲 禺賵丿卮丕賳 丕爻鬲. 丕蹖賳 亘丕毓孬 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 丿蹖乇鬲乇 丿乇 匕賴賳 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 卮讴賱 诏蹖乇丿.
趩丕倬 丕賵賱 郾鄢鄯郾
304 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1930
7,896 people are currently reading
232k people want to read
About the author
William Faulkner
1,147听books10.2k听followersWilliam Cuthbert Faulkner was an American writer. He is best known for his novels and short stories set in the fictional Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi, a stand-in for Lafayette County where he spent most of his life. A Nobel laureate, Faulkner is one of the most celebrated writers of American literature and often is considered the greatest writer of Southern literature.
Faulkner was born in New Albany, Mississippi, and raised in Oxford, Mississippi. During World War I, he joined the Royal Canadian Air Force, but did not serve in combat. Returning to Oxford, he attended the University of Mississippi for three semesters before dropping out. He moved to New Orleans, where he wrote his first novel Soldiers' Pay (1925). He went back to Oxford and wrote Sartoris (1927), his first work set in the fictional Yoknapatawpha County. In 1929, he published The Sound and the Fury. The following year, he wrote As I Lay Dying. Later that decade, he wrote Light in August, Absalom, Absalom! and The Wild Palms. He also worked as a screenwriter, contributing to Howard Hawks's To Have and Have Not and The Big Sleep, adapted from Raymond Chandler's novel. The former film, adapted from Ernest Hemingway's novel, is the only film with contributions by two Nobel laureates.
Faulkner's reputation grew following publication of Malcolm Cowley's The Portable Faulkner, and he was awarded the 1949 Nobel Prize in Literature for "his powerful and unique contribution to the modern American novel." He is the only Mississippi-born Nobel laureate. Two of his works, A Fable (1954) and The Reivers (1962), won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Faulkner died from a heart attack on July 6, 1962, following a fall from his horse the month before. Ralph Ellison called him "the greatest artist the South has produced".
Faulkner was born in New Albany, Mississippi, and raised in Oxford, Mississippi. During World War I, he joined the Royal Canadian Air Force, but did not serve in combat. Returning to Oxford, he attended the University of Mississippi for three semesters before dropping out. He moved to New Orleans, where he wrote his first novel Soldiers' Pay (1925). He went back to Oxford and wrote Sartoris (1927), his first work set in the fictional Yoknapatawpha County. In 1929, he published The Sound and the Fury. The following year, he wrote As I Lay Dying. Later that decade, he wrote Light in August, Absalom, Absalom! and The Wild Palms. He also worked as a screenwriter, contributing to Howard Hawks's To Have and Have Not and The Big Sleep, adapted from Raymond Chandler's novel. The former film, adapted from Ernest Hemingway's novel, is the only film with contributions by two Nobel laureates.
Faulkner's reputation grew following publication of Malcolm Cowley's The Portable Faulkner, and he was awarded the 1949 Nobel Prize in Literature for "his powerful and unique contribution to the modern American novel." He is the only Mississippi-born Nobel laureate. Two of his works, A Fable (1954) and The Reivers (1962), won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Faulkner died from a heart attack on July 6, 1962, following a fall from his horse the month before. Ralph Ellison called him "the greatest artist the South has produced".
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 12,282 reviews
August 27, 2008
I know you're "supposed to" love this book because it's Faulker, but I HATED IT! I know you're "cool" and "intelligent" if you read Faulkner, but I can't stand him. Sorry, I don't know what he's talking about (and at the risk of sounding immodest, I am bright). I DON'T think it's cool and "hip" to write in a confusing manner, and I don't try to impress others by liking ambiguity. I had my fill in college with snobs who pretended to like this stuff. Sorry I sound harsh here (I'm really a nice person), but YUK!
August 13, 2017
I've been working up to a William Faulkner book for years. His books always appear on lists of "best books of all time" and "books you should read before you die". But when I've felt in the mood for a classic or something "literary", I've always passed him up for other authors, even those with 1000+ page monsters. I think, deep down, I always sensed Faulkner just wasn't for me.
The first problem is my lack of enthusiasm for stream of consciousness narratives. If I'm being honest, I rarely like it. I don't mind working at a book if it's hard-going, but this style of narration makes it difficult for me, personally, to ever settle into the rhythm of the book. And Faulkner takes it to a whole new level. He drops us into scenes and scenarios without any explanation; I genuinely felt like Faulkner wanted to deliberately confuse his readers about characters and ideas he could have easily portrayed in a more accessible way. Confusion for confusion's sake.
Honestly, I can think of little more boring than suffering through every thought, feeling and instinct that passes through the human mind. I have my own mind that plagues me with this randomness; I don't need to read it in someone else's perspective. I want an author to organize language into a structure that is interesting, compelling, thought-provoking... and stream of consciousness, for me, is rarely any of those things.
But that's just my tastes for the style. Trying to take a step away from that a second and view what the novel did as a whole, I can't say I enjoyed the story. Nor do I tend to enjoy books with more than two or three perspectives - and this one had fifteen! In less than three-hundred pages!
The plot follows the Bundren family after the death of their matriarch, Addie. Fifteen perspectives tell the story of the family's journey to Jefferson, where Addie is to be buried. Hauling a wagon with Addie's decomposing body, the Bundren family sets out on a nine-day journey of frequent hunger and discomfort.
Faulkner includes important themes in his work, such as religion, poverty and identity in the Southern United States, but I still feel like other authors have done this in a more palatable way. I would much rather read Steinbeck any day.
One reviewer said this of Faulkner's style and I couldn't agree more:
So, so true.
| | | |
The first problem is my lack of enthusiasm for stream of consciousness narratives. If I'm being honest, I rarely like it. I don't mind working at a book if it's hard-going, but this style of narration makes it difficult for me, personally, to ever settle into the rhythm of the book. And Faulkner takes it to a whole new level. He drops us into scenes and scenarios without any explanation; I genuinely felt like Faulkner wanted to deliberately confuse his readers about characters and ideas he could have easily portrayed in a more accessible way. Confusion for confusion's sake.
Honestly, I can think of little more boring than suffering through every thought, feeling and instinct that passes through the human mind. I have my own mind that plagues me with this randomness; I don't need to read it in someone else's perspective. I want an author to organize language into a structure that is interesting, compelling, thought-provoking... and stream of consciousness, for me, is rarely any of those things.
But that's just my tastes for the style. Trying to take a step away from that a second and view what the novel did as a whole, I can't say I enjoyed the story. Nor do I tend to enjoy books with more than two or three perspectives - and this one had fifteen! In less than three-hundred pages!
The plot follows the Bundren family after the death of their matriarch, Addie. Fifteen perspectives tell the story of the family's journey to Jefferson, where Addie is to be buried. Hauling a wagon with Addie's decomposing body, the Bundren family sets out on a nine-day journey of frequent hunger and discomfort.
Faulkner includes important themes in his work, such as religion, poverty and identity in the Southern United States, but I still feel like other authors have done this in a more palatable way. I would much rather read Steinbeck any day.
One reviewer said this of Faulkner's style and I couldn't agree more:
It is easy to be confusing. It is easy to write something beautiful and understandable for yourself. It's hard to write universal words which we can all connect.
So, so true.
| | | |
June 20, 2023
Take life as it comes鈥� Take death as it comes鈥�
She is dying; she lies still鈥� But everything around her is in motion, all things are on the move, the world is spinning.
The narration consists of the character鈥檚 fragmentary thoughts, feverish mental impressions as if painted with the bold strokes of brush by the intrepid and furious impressionist鈥�
As I Lay Dying is a road book鈥�
It is an unimaginable chronicle of the long and calamitous funereal trek.
Obstinacy combined with foolishness is a deadly force鈥�
The quilt is drawn up to her chin, hot as it is, with only her two hands and her face outside. She is propped on the pillow, with her head raised so she can see out the window, and we can hear him every time he takes up the adze or the saw. If we were deaf we could almost watch her face and hear him, see him. Her face is wasted away so that the bones draw just under the skin in white lines. Her eyes are like two candles when you watch them gutter down into the sockets of iron candle-sticks. But the eternal and the everlasting salvation and grace is not upon her.
She is dying; she lies still鈥� But everything around her is in motion, all things are on the move, the world is spinning.
The narration consists of the character鈥檚 fragmentary thoughts, feverish mental impressions as if painted with the bold strokes of brush by the intrepid and furious impressionist鈥�
I had a nightmare once I thought I was awake but I couldn鈥檛 see and couldn鈥檛 feel I couldn鈥檛 feel the bed under me and I couldn鈥檛 think what I was I couldn鈥檛 think of my name I couldn鈥檛 even think I am a girl I couldn鈥檛 even think I nor even think I want to wake up nor remember what was opposite to awake so I could do that I knew that something was passing but I couldn鈥檛 even think of time then all of a sudden I knew that something was it was wind blowing over me it was like the wind came and blew me back from where it was I was not blowing the room and Vardaman asleep and all of them back under me again and going on like a piece of cool silk dragging across my naked legs.
As I Lay Dying is a road book鈥�
Back running, tunnelled between the two sets of bobbing mule ears, the road vanishes beneath the wagon as though it were a ribbon and the front axle were a spool.
It is an unimaginable chronicle of the long and calamitous funereal trek.
Obstinacy combined with foolishness is a deadly force鈥�
March 21, 2022
Where to start with a masterpiece that is both short like the distance between two thoughts and deep as the thoughts themselves? This is one of Faulkner's true masterpieces: a grotesque road trip with a rotting corpse told in the voices of the extremely dysfunctional and occasionally insane family members. It is Ulysses in the Southern United States, or a Georgian Grapes of Wrath (Faulkner having been inspired by the former and certainly influenced the latter). The writing is some of the most powerful that Faulkner ever produced:
...I would think how words go straight up in a thin line, quick and harmless, and how terribly doing goes along the earth, clinging to it, so that after a while the two lines are too far apart for the same person to straddle from one to the other; and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words.
The words leap off the page and both draw you into their language鈥檚 inner beauty and repulse you for the violence he depicts. It is as visceral as a slaughterhouse (complete with awls piercing caskets) and yet more optimistic than this generation鈥檚 Walking Dead.
鈥淚 enter the hall, hearing the voices before I reach the door. Tilting a little down the hill, as our house does, a breeze draws through the hall all the time, upslanting. A feather dropped near the front door will rise and brush along the ceiling, slanting backward, until it reaches the down-turning current at the back door: so with voices. As you enter the hall, they sound as though they were speaking out of the air about your head.鈥�
Amazing, 颈蝉苍鈥檛 it. And it feels so effortless as prose.
One of the greatest American novels ever written and one that will still be as moving and relevant centuries from now as it speaks eternal truth in the American vernacular. A must.
...I would think how words go straight up in a thin line, quick and harmless, and how terribly doing goes along the earth, clinging to it, so that after a while the two lines are too far apart for the same person to straddle from one to the other; and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words.
The words leap off the page and both draw you into their language鈥檚 inner beauty and repulse you for the violence he depicts. It is as visceral as a slaughterhouse (complete with awls piercing caskets) and yet more optimistic than this generation鈥檚 Walking Dead.
鈥淚 enter the hall, hearing the voices before I reach the door. Tilting a little down the hill, as our house does, a breeze draws through the hall all the time, upslanting. A feather dropped near the front door will rise and brush along the ceiling, slanting backward, until it reaches the down-turning current at the back door: so with voices. As you enter the hall, they sound as though they were speaking out of the air about your head.鈥�
Amazing, 颈蝉苍鈥檛 it. And it feels so effortless as prose.
One of the greatest American novels ever written and one that will still be as moving and relevant centuries from now as it speaks eternal truth in the American vernacular. A must.
September 11, 2010
THIS BOOK IS ABOUT HICKS THEY GO TO TOWN
November 25, 2015
Once you get past the ungainly oddness and wild strangeness which assails you from every direction, then you can see the weirdness which lies beyond.
The story, and there is a very strong clear linear narrative here, is wonderfully stupid. A back country family in Mississippi in the 20s has their dear mama Addie Bundren up and die on them and the lazy-ass sumbitch daddy thinks he then has to carry out her settled dying wish which, very unreasonably, was to get buried with her own kin 40 miles away in Jefferson. This wouldn鈥檛 be so bad except it鈥檚 the height of summer and there鈥檚 just been bad rains and a flood, so the bridges over the river are down. The whole passel of them, four sons, one daughter, one daddy, two mules and one horse, nevertheless trek off to do the right thing. To say they encounter obstacles would be to say nought but the truth. One such is that before very long Addie starts to decomp, to which many passing strangers take exception.
So it鈥檚 kind of a comic tale but it ain鈥檛 told comically. No sir. No ma鈥檃m.
The guides will say the same thing about this short but dense-like-a-black-hole novel:
As I Lay Dying is written as a series of stream-of-consciousness monologues, in which the characters鈥� thoughts are presented in all their uncensored chaos, without the organizing presence of an objective narrator.
That鈥檚 from the online Spark Notes. Fair enough , except that it鈥檚 just completely not true. All the short chapters are headed up with a character name, and it kind of naturally seems as if that character is narrating, but a) only occasionally could you call anything in this book stream of consciousness, and even then it鈥檚 nothing at all like our old beloved friends Virginia Woolf or James Joyce because these interior monologues come at you in perfectly formed and mostly graceful sentences; and b) The chapters obey no consistent rules or they change the rules all the time which is the same thing, so that in the middle of a paragraph it is suddenly the author鈥檚 omniscient voice popping up.
And another thing - what Faulkner does all the time is bend the credibility of the characters鈥� voices until they break.
Here鈥檚 two examples of purely natural monologue
Because be durn if there ain鈥檛 something about a durn fellow like Anse that seems to make a man have to help him, even when he knows he鈥檒l be wanting to kick himself the next minute.
And
Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It鈥檚 like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it鈥檚 the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.
But here鈥檚 an example of Faulkner鈥檚 own voice breaking in. The narrator here is Vardaman, aged around ten :
I can cry quiet now, feeling and hearing my tears It is dark. I can hear wood, silence. I know them. But not living sounds, not even him. It is as though the dark were resolving him out of his integrity into an unrelated scattering of components
The last sentence is not Vardaman. It鈥檚 Faulkner.
Here鈥檚 the daughter Dewey Dell 鈥� her usual mode is like this
About his head the print of his hat sweated into his hair. His shirt is blotched with sweat. He has not washed his hands and arms.
But then
The cow breathes upon my hips and back, her breath warm, sweet, stertorous, moaning.
(even my spellcheck does not know stertorous, much less an uneducated 17 year old country girl. So what is Faulkner doing here? Messing with us readers, I think.)
And now, here鈥檚 Darl, one of the sons. Now as this family is the
purely uneducated rural poor, how is it one of their sons (the one who narrates about half of the book) thinks in this lushly textured poetic and highly intellectual language?
He looks up at the gaunt face framed by the window in the twilight. It is a composite picture of all time since he was a child鈥�. For a while, still, she looks down at him from the composite picture, neither with censure nor approbation. 鈥�
Then she flings herself across Addie Bundren鈥檚 knees, clutching her, shaking her with the furious strength of the young before sprawling suddenly across the handful of rotten bones that Addie Bundren left, jarring the whole bed into a chattering sibilance of mattress shucks, her arms outflung and the fan in one hand still beating with expiring breath into the quilt.
She looks down at the face. It is like a casting of fading bronze upon the pillow, the hands alone still with any semblance of life : a curled, gnarled inertness; a spent yet alert quality from which weariness, exhaustion, travail has not yet departed, as though they doubted even yet the actuality of rest, guarding with horned and penurious alertness the cessation which they know cannot last.
Check out these examples of Darl鈥檚 vocabulary:
We go on with a motion so soporific, so dreamlike as to be uninferant of progress, as though time and not space were decreasing between us and it.
How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant
A cubistic bug
Starkly re-accruent
Don鈥檛 sound like no poor white trash I ever came acrost, dunt know about you. Sounds more like Marcel damn Proust than Hank Williams. Shoot, sounds more like this William Faulkner hisself talkin. Seems he didn鈥檛 want to write no normal book but one a them whatchacallem modernist efforts but like he jes couldnt hep hisself & had to git that thar poetic jawbreakin stuff in there someways n so turned one a his ole country boys into some kinda god damn genius.
It doesn鈥檛 really work, a few pages of Darl and my suspension of disbelief came crashing down and really bruised my left shoulder, I can still feel it now.
And there鈥檚 another thing about old Darl. He frequently launches off into Deep Space, like this:
I don鈥檛 know what I am. I don鈥檛 know if I am or not. Jewel knows he is, because he does not know that he does not know whether he is or not. . He cannot empty himself for sleep because he is not what he is and he is what he is not.
I had to look round and ask here, who let Samuel Beckett in here?
Even so, and also taking into consideration a couple of apparent plot holes in the rather-too-neat O Henryish ending (how did bumbling Anse fix up all that in such a short space of time?) I still loved the bravery and confidence of this novel. It ramified my brain, and there is hardly any higher praise. It was great.
4.5 stars
The story, and there is a very strong clear linear narrative here, is wonderfully stupid. A back country family in Mississippi in the 20s has their dear mama Addie Bundren up and die on them and the lazy-ass sumbitch daddy thinks he then has to carry out her settled dying wish which, very unreasonably, was to get buried with her own kin 40 miles away in Jefferson. This wouldn鈥檛 be so bad except it鈥檚 the height of summer and there鈥檚 just been bad rains and a flood, so the bridges over the river are down. The whole passel of them, four sons, one daughter, one daddy, two mules and one horse, nevertheless trek off to do the right thing. To say they encounter obstacles would be to say nought but the truth. One such is that before very long Addie starts to decomp, to which many passing strangers take exception.
So it鈥檚 kind of a comic tale but it ain鈥檛 told comically. No sir. No ma鈥檃m.
The guides will say the same thing about this short but dense-like-a-black-hole novel:
As I Lay Dying is written as a series of stream-of-consciousness monologues, in which the characters鈥� thoughts are presented in all their uncensored chaos, without the organizing presence of an objective narrator.
That鈥檚 from the online Spark Notes. Fair enough , except that it鈥檚 just completely not true. All the short chapters are headed up with a character name, and it kind of naturally seems as if that character is narrating, but a) only occasionally could you call anything in this book stream of consciousness, and even then it鈥檚 nothing at all like our old beloved friends Virginia Woolf or James Joyce because these interior monologues come at you in perfectly formed and mostly graceful sentences; and b) The chapters obey no consistent rules or they change the rules all the time which is the same thing, so that in the middle of a paragraph it is suddenly the author鈥檚 omniscient voice popping up.
And another thing - what Faulkner does all the time is bend the credibility of the characters鈥� voices until they break.
Here鈥檚 two examples of purely natural monologue
Because be durn if there ain鈥檛 something about a durn fellow like Anse that seems to make a man have to help him, even when he knows he鈥檒l be wanting to kick himself the next minute.
And
Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It鈥檚 like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it鈥檚 the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.
But here鈥檚 an example of Faulkner鈥檚 own voice breaking in. The narrator here is Vardaman, aged around ten :
I can cry quiet now, feeling and hearing my tears It is dark. I can hear wood, silence. I know them. But not living sounds, not even him. It is as though the dark were resolving him out of his integrity into an unrelated scattering of components
The last sentence is not Vardaman. It鈥檚 Faulkner.
Here鈥檚 the daughter Dewey Dell 鈥� her usual mode is like this
About his head the print of his hat sweated into his hair. His shirt is blotched with sweat. He has not washed his hands and arms.
But then
The cow breathes upon my hips and back, her breath warm, sweet, stertorous, moaning.
(even my spellcheck does not know stertorous, much less an uneducated 17 year old country girl. So what is Faulkner doing here? Messing with us readers, I think.)
And now, here鈥檚 Darl, one of the sons. Now as this family is the
purely uneducated rural poor, how is it one of their sons (the one who narrates about half of the book) thinks in this lushly textured poetic and highly intellectual language?
He looks up at the gaunt face framed by the window in the twilight. It is a composite picture of all time since he was a child鈥�. For a while, still, she looks down at him from the composite picture, neither with censure nor approbation. 鈥�
Then she flings herself across Addie Bundren鈥檚 knees, clutching her, shaking her with the furious strength of the young before sprawling suddenly across the handful of rotten bones that Addie Bundren left, jarring the whole bed into a chattering sibilance of mattress shucks, her arms outflung and the fan in one hand still beating with expiring breath into the quilt.
She looks down at the face. It is like a casting of fading bronze upon the pillow, the hands alone still with any semblance of life : a curled, gnarled inertness; a spent yet alert quality from which weariness, exhaustion, travail has not yet departed, as though they doubted even yet the actuality of rest, guarding with horned and penurious alertness the cessation which they know cannot last.
Check out these examples of Darl鈥檚 vocabulary:
We go on with a motion so soporific, so dreamlike as to be uninferant of progress, as though time and not space were decreasing between us and it.
How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant
A cubistic bug
Starkly re-accruent
Don鈥檛 sound like no poor white trash I ever came acrost, dunt know about you. Sounds more like Marcel damn Proust than Hank Williams. Shoot, sounds more like this William Faulkner hisself talkin. Seems he didn鈥檛 want to write no normal book but one a them whatchacallem modernist efforts but like he jes couldnt hep hisself & had to git that thar poetic jawbreakin stuff in there someways n so turned one a his ole country boys into some kinda god damn genius.
It doesn鈥檛 really work, a few pages of Darl and my suspension of disbelief came crashing down and really bruised my left shoulder, I can still feel it now.
And there鈥檚 another thing about old Darl. He frequently launches off into Deep Space, like this:
I don鈥檛 know what I am. I don鈥檛 know if I am or not. Jewel knows he is, because he does not know that he does not know whether he is or not. . He cannot empty himself for sleep because he is not what he is and he is what he is not.
I had to look round and ask here, who let Samuel Beckett in here?
Even so, and also taking into consideration a couple of apparent plot holes in the rather-too-neat O Henryish ending (how did bumbling Anse fix up all that in such a short space of time?) I still loved the bravery and confidence of this novel. It ramified my brain, and there is hardly any higher praise. It was great.
4.5 stars
March 11, 2012
"And since sleep is is-not and rain and wind are was, it is not. Yet the wagon is, because when the wagon is was, Addie Bundren will not be. And Jewel is, so Addie Bundren must be. And then I must be, or I could not empty myself for sleep in a strange room. And so if I am not emptied yet, I am is."
............ There are people who actually like this?
Seriously though, I'm pretty sure I get it, I just don't like it. There is a family and each one is a reflection of a way of living, or in some cases, a way of dying. Anse is the 'woe is me' type and Addie is the 'Serve your purpose and die' type and that's all well and good, and it's a pretty cool idea for a book, I just don't like Faulkner. Do you know that skill has very little to do with the process of inventing a concept? I'm still not entirely convinced that Faulkner is the genius he is made out to be. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced I should like him at all. Based off his biography he is kind of a pathetic, lying, failure - so what am I supposed to think of his writing?
Stream-of-consciousness is one thing, writing in Faulkner's way is another. Scenes are dropped onto our heads in ways we cannot comprehend and actions are portrayed without explanation. And do you know the unfairest cut of all? Faulkner knows what he is trying to say, he knows all about these characters, he just isn't showing us anything. An example: originally there were no names at the beginning of the chapters. Yeah, no kidding. He just wrote this shit with no explanation of our speaker and expected us to figure it out. That is not genius. Writing is about making a connection to a stranger, bridging a gap of confusion to create understanding and to share an idea, a theme, an image with thousands or millions of people who you've never met. Faulkner writes in jargon he understands with little to no respect for the reader and I can't forgive him for it. If you don't believe me then write something. Write a short story. Write 3, or 4, or 5 pages. Flesh out the characters and their histories and their conflicts. Got it? Okay, now when you are writing a scene with multiple people use only the pronoun he. You will know who you are talking about - do we? Is that good writing? No, it isn't.
It is easy to be confusing. It is easy to write something beautiful and understandable for yourself. It's hard to write universal words which we can all connect.
Good idea, Faulkner, poor performance.
............ There are people who actually like this?
Seriously though, I'm pretty sure I get it, I just don't like it. There is a family and each one is a reflection of a way of living, or in some cases, a way of dying. Anse is the 'woe is me' type and Addie is the 'Serve your purpose and die' type and that's all well and good, and it's a pretty cool idea for a book, I just don't like Faulkner. Do you know that skill has very little to do with the process of inventing a concept? I'm still not entirely convinced that Faulkner is the genius he is made out to be. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced I should like him at all. Based off his biography he is kind of a pathetic, lying, failure - so what am I supposed to think of his writing?
Stream-of-consciousness is one thing, writing in Faulkner's way is another. Scenes are dropped onto our heads in ways we cannot comprehend and actions are portrayed without explanation. And do you know the unfairest cut of all? Faulkner knows what he is trying to say, he knows all about these characters, he just isn't showing us anything. An example: originally there were no names at the beginning of the chapters. Yeah, no kidding. He just wrote this shit with no explanation of our speaker and expected us to figure it out. That is not genius. Writing is about making a connection to a stranger, bridging a gap of confusion to create understanding and to share an idea, a theme, an image with thousands or millions of people who you've never met. Faulkner writes in jargon he understands with little to no respect for the reader and I can't forgive him for it. If you don't believe me then write something. Write a short story. Write 3, or 4, or 5 pages. Flesh out the characters and their histories and their conflicts. Got it? Okay, now when you are writing a scene with multiple people use only the pronoun he. You will know who you are talking about - do we? Is that good writing? No, it isn't.
It is easy to be confusing. It is easy to write something beautiful and understandable for yourself. It's hard to write universal words which we can all connect.
Good idea, Faulkner, poor performance.
December 16, 2021
Many of us slogged through this unofficial My First Faulkner in high school, and probably all any of us remember from it is Vardaman's line, "My mother is a fish," which our teachers used to teach us about Foreshadowing. For many of us this would be My Last Faulkner too because we learned mostly that Faulkner is a fucking pain in the ass. At least it's less confusing than The Sound & The Fury, although that's sortof like saying a given animal is less dangerous than a bear strapped to a shark: okay, but there's a long way between that and safe.
Faulkner is a pain in the ass because he was a modernist - one of the Three Great Modernists, along with Woolf and Joyce, and modernism is when you jumble up your timelines and perspectives and generally just obfuscate everything so it's about all a body can do to figure out what the plot even is, and while all three of these authors are great, in that they know what they're doing and they're memorable and they're telling great truths, they are also massive pains in your ass and should basically not be read by most people.
But you can more or less follow most of the plot in this book, and here's what it is: this shambling backwoods family of future Trump voters sets off to bury the matriarch on her family land, and they fuck it all up. The plot has the grinding inevitability of great tragedy, but the events have an obstinately small scale; it's just these idiots, trying to get a coffin across a river.
Here are the characters:
- Addie Bundren, the one who dies;
- Anse, her lazy good-for-nothing husband, who looks "like a figure carved clumsily from tough wood by a drunken caricaturist," a description that Cormac McCarthy would build basically his entire career on;
- Cash, the carpenter eldest son who never finishes a sentence even in his head;
- Darl, who for some reason doubles as an omniscient narrator, the most articulate of the group, considered queer for that very reason (remember that scene in Idiocracy where the dude gets ) and constantly babbling about is and was like a college kid getting stoned for the third time;
- Jewel, the horse-obsessed son whose eyes are constantly described, "like pieces of a broken plate," which no they aren't, that's simply not what eyes are like;
- Dewey Dell, the sole daughter, whose "wet dress shapes for the blind eyes of three blind men those mammalian ludicrosities which are the horizons and the valleys of the earth" in the single worst description of breasts ever perpetrated to paper;
- Vardaman of the fish, who is off in some vague way - Faulkner has never been particularly specific about his medical diagnoses. Benjy from Sound & The Fury is also non-diagnosably "off"; he might be autistic, who knows. Vardaman is either in his early teens and off (my position) or around 8 and less off. There's conflicting evidence.
Faulkner sortof recycles some of his characters from Sound & the Fury, written just a year earlier in 1929: Benjy and Vardaman are both fucked in the head; Dewey Dell and Caddy are the underdressed daughters; Darl and Quentin are the time-obsessed poets. (They also share a setting, Faulkner's famous and made-up Yoknapatawpha County in Mississippi. Mississippi might be real, how would I know.) Sound & the Fury didn't sell well, and Faulkner aimed "deliberately to write a tour de force," a surefire winner, which more or less worked out. He claims to have written it in six weeks and one draft.
There are a few other characters, most notably the more functional neighbors Vernon and Cora Tull. Everybody takes turns narrating; each has a distinct voice, but all of them use words they couldn't possibly have any excuse to know. Here's young Vardaman's description of a horse:
I'm making fun of Faulkner a lot, which is easy and fun to do because he's a jackass, but I like this book. The river crossing is genuinely exciting. Faulkner's kinda funny, in sortof a "check out this sentence I'm about to get away with, fuck all of you" way - not as funny as his fellow Southern Gothic Flannery O'Connor, but who is. The book overall walks a line between complicated and understandable, and for once Faulkner stays on the right side of it.
Over the course of the book, most of the family have their own stories to play out. It's surprising and neat; new dimensions keep unfolding. We learn that Jewel ; Dewey Dell (what kind of fuckin' name is that?) ; Darl . Even dumb old Anse . He also .
I'm not the world's biggest Faulkner fan. Of the modernists, Woolf is by far my favorite; of the writers in general, the modernists are among my least favorite, because for fuck's sake just write down what's happening, if I wanted a puzzle I'd do a crossword.
I generally wouldn't recommend that anyone read Faulkner unless they're just dying to for some reason, and in that case one should maybe ask oneself what that reason could possibly be, and is one really making good life choices here, and is one crazy, and is one possibly a pretentious dickwad, and wouldn't one honestly be better off just watching TV. Says the guy who was just dying to read Faulkner like a week ago, and now I've gone and done it and I kinda thought it was great. I don't know, man.
Don't look at me.
Faulkner is a pain in the ass because he was a modernist - one of the Three Great Modernists, along with Woolf and Joyce, and modernism is when you jumble up your timelines and perspectives and generally just obfuscate everything so it's about all a body can do to figure out what the plot even is, and while all three of these authors are great, in that they know what they're doing and they're memorable and they're telling great truths, they are also massive pains in your ass and should basically not be read by most people.
But you can more or less follow most of the plot in this book, and here's what it is: this shambling backwoods family of future Trump voters sets off to bury the matriarch on her family land, and they fuck it all up. The plot has the grinding inevitability of great tragedy, but the events have an obstinately small scale; it's just these idiots, trying to get a coffin across a river.
Here are the characters:
- Addie Bundren, the one who dies;
- Anse, her lazy good-for-nothing husband, who looks "like a figure carved clumsily from tough wood by a drunken caricaturist," a description that Cormac McCarthy would build basically his entire career on;
- Cash, the carpenter eldest son who never finishes a sentence even in his head;
- Darl, who for some reason doubles as an omniscient narrator, the most articulate of the group, considered queer for that very reason (remember that scene in Idiocracy where the dude gets ) and constantly babbling about is and was like a college kid getting stoned for the third time;
- Jewel, the horse-obsessed son whose eyes are constantly described, "like pieces of a broken plate," which no they aren't, that's simply not what eyes are like;
- Dewey Dell, the sole daughter, whose "wet dress shapes for the blind eyes of three blind men those mammalian ludicrosities which are the horizons and the valleys of the earth" in the single worst description of breasts ever perpetrated to paper;
- Vardaman of the fish, who is off in some vague way - Faulkner has never been particularly specific about his medical diagnoses. Benjy from Sound & The Fury is also non-diagnosably "off"; he might be autistic, who knows. Vardaman is either in his early teens and off (my position) or around 8 and less off. There's conflicting evidence.
Faulkner sortof recycles some of his characters from Sound & the Fury, written just a year earlier in 1929: Benjy and Vardaman are both fucked in the head; Dewey Dell and Caddy are the underdressed daughters; Darl and Quentin are the time-obsessed poets. (They also share a setting, Faulkner's famous and made-up Yoknapatawpha County in Mississippi. Mississippi might be real, how would I know.) Sound & the Fury didn't sell well, and Faulkner aimed "deliberately to write a tour de force," a surefire winner, which more or less worked out. He claims to have written it in six weeks and one draft.
There are a few other characters, most notably the more functional neighbors Vernon and Cora Tull. Everybody takes turns narrating; each has a distinct voice, but all of them use words they couldn't possibly have any excuse to know. Here's young Vardaman's description of a horse:
Faulkner's not even trying to make anyone talk realistically. He's about something, I guess - lending epic weight to lifesize events - and I even kinda like it... but it's still basically ridiculous.
It is as though the dark were resolving him out of his integrity, into an unrelated scattering of components - snuffings and stampings, smells of cooling flesh and ammoniac hair, an uncoordinated whole of splotched hide and strong bones within which, detached and secret and familiar, an is different from my is.
I'm making fun of Faulkner a lot, which is easy and fun to do because he's a jackass, but I like this book. The river crossing is genuinely exciting. Faulkner's kinda funny, in sortof a "check out this sentence I'm about to get away with, fuck all of you" way - not as funny as his fellow Southern Gothic Flannery O'Connor, but who is. The book overall walks a line between complicated and understandable, and for once Faulkner stays on the right side of it.
Over the course of the book, most of the family have their own stories to play out. It's surprising and neat; new dimensions keep unfolding. We learn that Jewel ; Dewey Dell (what kind of fuckin' name is that?) ; Darl . Even dumb old Anse . He also .
I'm not the world's biggest Faulkner fan. Of the modernists, Woolf is by far my favorite; of the writers in general, the modernists are among my least favorite, because for fuck's sake just write down what's happening, if I wanted a puzzle I'd do a crossword.
I generally wouldn't recommend that anyone read Faulkner unless they're just dying to for some reason, and in that case one should maybe ask oneself what that reason could possibly be, and is one really making good life choices here, and is one crazy, and is one possibly a pretentious dickwad, and wouldn't one honestly be better off just watching TV. Says the guy who was just dying to read Faulkner like a week ago, and now I've gone and done it and I kinda thought it was great. I don't know, man.
I aint so sho who's got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It's like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it's the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.
Don't look at me.
October 3, 2021
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner
As I Lay Dying is a 1930 novel, in the genre of Southern Gothic, by American author William Faulkner. Faulkner said that he wrote the novel from midnight to 4:00 AM over the course of six weeks and that he did not change a word of it. Faulkner wrote it while working at a power plant, published it in 1930, and described it as a "tour de force".
Faulkner's fifth novel, it is consistently ranked among the best novels of 20th-century literature. The title derives from Book XI of Homer's Odyssey, wherein Agamemnon tells Odysseus: "As I lay dying, the woman with the dog's eyes would not close my eyes as I descended into Hades."
The book is narrated by 15 different characters over 51 chapters. It is the story of the death of Addie Bundren and her poor, rural family's quest and motivations (noble or selfish) to honor her wish to be buried in her hometown of Jefferson, Mississippi.
As the book opens, Addie is alive, though in ill health. Addie and others expect her to die soon, and she sits at a window watching as her firstborn, Cash, builds her coffin.
Anse, Addie's husband, waits on the porch, while their daughter, Dewey Dell, fans her mother in the July heat. The night after Addie dies a heavy rainstorm sets in; rivers rise and wash out bridges the family will need to cross to get to Jefferson.
The family's trek by wagon begins, with Addie's non-embalmed body in the coffin. Along the way, Anse and the five children encounter various difficulties.
Anse frequently rejects any offers of assistance, including meals or lodging, so at times the family goes hungry and sleeps in barns.
At other times he refuses to accept loans from people, claiming he wishes to "be beholden to no man", thus manipulating the would-be-lender into giving him charity as a gift not to be repaid. Jewel, Addie's middle child, tries to leave his dysfunctional family, yet cannot turn his back on them through the trials.
Cash breaks a leg and winds up riding atop the coffin. He refuses to admit to any discomfort, but the family eventually puts a makeshift cast of concrete on his leg. Twice, the family almost loses Addie's coffin first, while crossing a river on a washed-out bridge (two mules are lost), and second, when a fire of suspicious origin starts in the barn where the coffin is being stored for a night.
After nine days, the family finally arrives in Jefferson, where the stench from the coffin is quickly smelled by the townspeople. In town, family members have different items of business to take care of. Cash's broken leg needs attention.
Dewey Dell, for the second time in the novel, goes to a pharmacy, trying to obtain an abortion that she does not know how to ask for. First, though, Anse wants to borrow some shovels to bury Addie, because that was the purpose of the trip and the family should be together for that.
Before that happens, however, Darl, the second eldest, is seized for the arson of the barn and sent to the Mississippi State Insane Asylum in Jackson. With Addie only just buried, Anse forces Dewey Dell to give up her money, which he spends on getting "new teeth", and marries the woman from whom he borrowed the spades.
鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 乇賵夭 趩賴丕乇丿賴賲 賲丕賴 賮賵乇蹖賴 爻丕賱 1994賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
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鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 01/09/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 10/07/1400賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
As I Lay Dying is a 1930 novel, in the genre of Southern Gothic, by American author William Faulkner. Faulkner said that he wrote the novel from midnight to 4:00 AM over the course of six weeks and that he did not change a word of it. Faulkner wrote it while working at a power plant, published it in 1930, and described it as a "tour de force".
Faulkner's fifth novel, it is consistently ranked among the best novels of 20th-century literature. The title derives from Book XI of Homer's Odyssey, wherein Agamemnon tells Odysseus: "As I lay dying, the woman with the dog's eyes would not close my eyes as I descended into Hades."
The book is narrated by 15 different characters over 51 chapters. It is the story of the death of Addie Bundren and her poor, rural family's quest and motivations (noble or selfish) to honor her wish to be buried in her hometown of Jefferson, Mississippi.
As the book opens, Addie is alive, though in ill health. Addie and others expect her to die soon, and she sits at a window watching as her firstborn, Cash, builds her coffin.
Anse, Addie's husband, waits on the porch, while their daughter, Dewey Dell, fans her mother in the July heat. The night after Addie dies a heavy rainstorm sets in; rivers rise and wash out bridges the family will need to cross to get to Jefferson.
The family's trek by wagon begins, with Addie's non-embalmed body in the coffin. Along the way, Anse and the five children encounter various difficulties.
Anse frequently rejects any offers of assistance, including meals or lodging, so at times the family goes hungry and sleeps in barns.
At other times he refuses to accept loans from people, claiming he wishes to "be beholden to no man", thus manipulating the would-be-lender into giving him charity as a gift not to be repaid. Jewel, Addie's middle child, tries to leave his dysfunctional family, yet cannot turn his back on them through the trials.
Cash breaks a leg and winds up riding atop the coffin. He refuses to admit to any discomfort, but the family eventually puts a makeshift cast of concrete on his leg. Twice, the family almost loses Addie's coffin first, while crossing a river on a washed-out bridge (two mules are lost), and second, when a fire of suspicious origin starts in the barn where the coffin is being stored for a night.
After nine days, the family finally arrives in Jefferson, where the stench from the coffin is quickly smelled by the townspeople. In town, family members have different items of business to take care of. Cash's broken leg needs attention.
Dewey Dell, for the second time in the novel, goes to a pharmacy, trying to obtain an abortion that she does not know how to ask for. First, though, Anse wants to borrow some shovels to bury Addie, because that was the purpose of the trip and the family should be together for that.
Before that happens, however, Darl, the second eldest, is seized for the arson of the barn and sent to the Mississippi State Insane Asylum in Jackson. With Addie only just buried, Anse forces Dewey Dell to give up her money, which he spends on getting "new teeth", and marries the woman from whom he borrowed the spades.
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丌賳趩賳丕賳讴賴 丕夭 亘乇诏乇丿丕賳 毓賳賵丕賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘乇賲蹖丌蹖丿貙 賱丕亘丿 亘乇诏乇丿丕賳丿賳 賲鬲賳 丕氐賱蹖 亘賴 賲鬲賳 賮丕乇爻蹖 賳蹖夭貙 丿卮賵丕乇 亘賵丿賴 丕爻鬲貙 讴鬲丕亘 蹖讴 爻丕賱 倬爻 丕夭 賳诏丕乇卮: 芦禺卮賲 賵 賴蹖丕賴賵禄貙 賵 丿乇 爻丕賱 1930賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 亘賴 賳诏丕乇卮 丿乇丌賲丿賴貙 賵 亘乇賳丿賴 蹖 賳賵亘賱 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 卮丿賴 丕爻鬲貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賲丿毓蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 芦诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇禄 乇丕 卮卮 賴賮鬲賴鈥� 丕蹖貙 丌賳鈥� 賴賲 卮亘鈥屬囏� 賵 倬丕蹖 讴賵乇賴 蹖 蹖讴 賳蹖乇賵诏丕賴 賲丨賱蹖 賳诏丕卮鬲賴貙 賵 丿蹖诏乇 丿爻鬲蹖 丿乇 丌賳 賳亘乇丿賴 丕爻鬲
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July 18, 2017
{ 螝螒螛惟危 唯违围螣巍巍螒螕惟鈥⑩€⑩€S I LAY DYING }
螝伪胃蠋蟼.... 蠄蠀蠂慰蟻蟻伪纬蠋.
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 芦魏伪胃蠋蟼禄蔚委谓伪喂 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟽未委未蔚喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 尾伪胃蠉 渭蠀蟽蟿萎蟻喂慰 魏伪喂 蟺蠈谓慰 位蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟽蠀纬魏蔚谓蟿蟻蠋谓蔚喂 蟿慰 谓蠈畏渭伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 蠈位畏蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蟿畏谓 蠋蟻伪 蟿慰蠀 蔚蟺喂胃伪谓维蟿喂慰蠀 蟻蠈纬蠂慰蠀. 韦蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委蔚蟼 伪谓伪蟺谓慰苇蟼 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼
蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈蟿蔚蟻蔚蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 委未喂伪 蟿畏谓 伪谓维蟽伪 蟿蠅谓 味蠅谓蟿伪谓蠋谓.
螠蔚 魏蠀蟻委蔚蠀蟽蔚 伪蠀蟿蠈蟼 慰 蟿委蟿位慰蟼. 螠蔚 蟽畏渭维未蔚蠄蔚.
韦喂 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪 蟽魏苇蠁蟿蔚蟿伪喂 魏维蟺慰喂慰蟼 蟿喂蟼 蟿蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委蔚蟼 蟿慰蠀 蟽蟿喂纬渭苇蟼;
螝伪胃蠋蟼 蠄蠀蠂慰蟻蟻伪纬蔚委. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 蟿蔚位蔚喂蠋谓蔚喂. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 纬蔚蠉蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰蠀 蠄喂胃蠀蟻委味蔚喂 位蠈纬喂伪 伪谓蔚委蟺蠅蟿伪 魏伪喂 伪蟺伪纬慰蟻蔚蠀渭苇谓伪 蟽蔚 蠈蟽慰蠀蟼 未蔚谓 尾蟻蔚胃慰蠉谓 蟽蟿畏谓 委未喂伪 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏.
螝伪胃蠋蟼...胃伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟻纬维. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 畏 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 胃伪 蠂蔚喂蟻慰蟿蔚蟻蔚蠉蔚喂. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 蠈位伪 胃伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿伪. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 蟿伪 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏维 未蔚谓 蠀蟺萎蟻尉伪谓 蟺慰蟿苇 魏喂 伪谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂慰蠀谓 蟿蠋蟻伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪谓伪蟽蟿蟻苇蠄喂渭伪 魏伪喂 渭蠈谓慰 渭蔚 蟿畏 蠁伪谓蟿伪蟽委伪 蟺蟻慰尾位苇蠄喂渭伪.
桅惟螝螡螘巍:
螖蔚谓 尉苇蟻蠅 谓伪 蟽伪蟼 蟺蠅 渭蔚 蟽喂纬慰蠀蟻喂维 伪谓 蔚委谓伪喂 慰 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈蟿蔚蟻慰蟼 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 20慰蠀 伪喂蠋谓伪. 螢苇蟻蠅 蠈渭蠅蟼 蟽委纬慰蠀蟻伪 蟺蠅蟼 伪蟺慰蟿蔚位蔚委 渭委伪 蟽蟺慰蠀未伪委伪 蟿畏蟼 位慰纬慰蟿蔚蠂谓委伪蟼 蟽蠂慰位萎.
螆蠂蔚喂 未喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 蟽蟿委纬渭伪. 螖喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 位伪蠆魏萎蟼 纬蟻伪蠁萎蟼 魏伪喂 纬位伪蠁蠀蟻萎蟼 蟻畏蟿慰蟻蔚委伪蟼. 螠蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 蔚谓蟿维尉蔚喂 蟿慰 纬魏蟻慰蟿苇蟽魏慰 魏伪喂 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏维 纬蔚位慰委慰 纬蔚纬慰谓蠈蟼 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 伪蟻喂蟽蟿慰蠀蟻纬畏渭伪蟿喂魏萎 未喂萎纬畏蟽畏. 螡伪 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬萎蟽蔚喂 渭蔚 蟿伪 蟺喂慰 蟽魏慰蠉蟻伪 魏伪喂 蟽魏慰蟿蔚喂谓维 蠂蟻蠋渭伪蟿伪 苇谓伪谓 蟺委谓伪魏伪 蟺慰蠀 尉蔚蠂蔚喂位委味蔚喂 蠁蠅蟼 魏伪喂 味蠅萎. 螒谓慰委纬蔚喂 渭喂伪 魏伪喂谓慰蠉蟻纬喂伪 蟺蠈蟻蟿伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟽蟿喂魏萎 伪谓蟿委位畏蠄畏,蟽魏苇蠄畏,喂魏伪谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 魏伪喂 未蠀谓伪蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪.
危委纬慰蠀蟻伪 胃蔚蠅蟻蠋 蟺蠅蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟿慰谓 未喂伪尾维蟽蔚喂蟼 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蔚委蟽伪喂 蟽蔚 蟺位萎蟻畏 蔚蟿慰喂渭蠈蟿畏蟿伪. 危蔚 伪谓维位慰纬慰 蠄蠀蠂喂蟽渭蠈,畏位喂魏委伪,魏伪位位喂苇蟻纬蔚喂伪 魏伪喂 蔚渭蟺蔚喂蟻委伪.
螤伪蟻伪魏慰位慰蠀胃慰蠉渭蔚 位慰喂蟺蠈谓 蟿慰 魏伪胃蠋蟼...渭喂伪蟼 蔚蟿慰喂渭慰胃维谓伪蟿畏蟼 渭畏蟿苇蟻伪蟼 5 蟺伪喂未喂蠋谓 魏伪喂 蔚谓蠈蟼 蟽蠀味蠉纬慰蠀,伪渭蠁喂蟽尾畏蟿慰蠉渭蔚谓蠅谓 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 委未喂伪.
螚 蟽魏苇蠄畏 蟿畏蟼-蟿畏谓 慰蟺慰委伪 魏伪喂 未喂伪尾维味慰蠀渭蔚 渭蔚蟿维 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蟿畏蟼-蠁蠅谓维味蔚喂 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 蟽蠂苇蟽畏 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 纬维渭慰,蟿畏谓 伪蠀蟿慰胃蠀蟽委伪 蟿畏蟼 纬蠀谓伪委魏伪蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿伪蟺喂苇味蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿伪 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏维 魏伪喂 胃蟻畏蟽魏蔚蠀蟿喂魏维 蟺蟻蠈蟿蠀蟺伪,蟿畏谓 伪谓伪纬魏伪蟽蟿喂魏萎 渭畏蟿蟻蠈蟿畏蟿伪 魏伪喂 蟿慰 渭蔚纬维位慰 伪渭维蟻蟿畏渭伪 蟿慰蠀 蟺维胃慰蠀蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰 慰谓慰渭维味慰蠀谓 位维胃慰蟼 蠈蟽慰喂 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 蟿慰 苇味畏蟽伪谓.
韦蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委伪 蟿畏蟼 蔚蟺喂胃蠀渭委伪 谓伪 胃伪蠁蟿蔚委 蟽蟿慰 渭苇蟻慰蟼 蟺慰蠀 纬蔚谓谓萎胃畏魏蔚 魏伪喂 伪蠁慰蠉 尾蟻委蟽魏蔚蟿伪喂 蟺慰位蠉 渭伪魏蟻喂维 伪蟺慰 蔚魏蔚委 蟺慰蠀 味蔚喂,蟺蟻慰蠇蟺慰胃苇蟿蔚喂 慰未慰喂蟺慰蟻喂魏蠈 蠈位畏蟼 蟿畏蟼 慰喂魏慰纬苇谓蔚喂伪蟼 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿慰谓 慰喂魏慰纬蔚谓蔚喂伪魏蠈 蟿畏蟼 蟿维蠁慰.
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 慰未慰喂蟺慰蟻喂魏蠈 蟿畏蟼 伪纬蟻慰蟿喂魏萎蟼 慰喂魏慰纬苇谓蔚喂伪蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟻畏渭维味蔚喂 伪蟺慰 伪谓苇蠂蔚喂伪 魏伪喂 蠁蟿蠋蠂蔚喂伪 伪位位维 未喂伪魏伪蟿苇蠂蔚蟿伪喂 伪蟺慰 尾伪胃蠉 伪委蟽胃畏渭伪 蠀蟺蔚蟻畏蠁维谓蔚喂伪蟼 魏伪喂 蔚谓蟿喂渭蠈蟿畏蟿伪蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 纬蔚位慰委慰,维胃位喂慰 魏伪喂 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏蠈 蟺慰蠀 蟺慰谓维蔚喂 渭苇蠂蟻喂 未伪魏蟻蠉蠅谓.
螤蟻喂谓 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰, 蠈蟿伪谓 尾蟻喂蟽魏蠈渭伪蟽蟿伪谓 伪魏蠈渭畏 蟽蟿慰 魏伪胃蠋蟼...慰 渭蔚纬维位慰蟼 纬喂慰蟼 伪谓伪位伪渭尾维谓蔚喂 谓伪 蠁蟿喂维尉蔚喂 蟿慰 蠁苇蟻蔚蟿蟻慰 蟿畏蟼 渭畏蟿苇蟻伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 渭维位喂蟽蟿伪 蟿慰 渭伪蟽蟿慰蟻蔚蠉蔚喂 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿慰 蟺伪蟻维胃蠀蟻慰 蟿畏蟼 蔚蟿慰喂渭慰胃维谓伪蟿畏蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪
蟿慰 尾位苇蟺蔚喂 魏伪喂 谓伪 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 蟽蠀谓蟿蟻慰蠁喂维 蟿畏蟼 蟽蟿慰 魏伪胃蠋蟼...
螣 胃维谓伪蟿慰蟼 未喂伪蟿伪蟻维蟽蟽蔚喂 蟿慰 渭喂魏蟻蠈蟿蔚蟻慰 蟺伪喂未委 蟺慰蠀 蠀蟺慰蠁苇蟻蔚喂 魏伪喂 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂蠋蟼 渭慰谓慰位慰纬蔚委 蟺蠅蟼 畏 渭维谓伪 蟿慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蠄维蟻喂. 螒蟻谓蔚委蟿伪喂 蟿慰 蠁蔚蠀纬喂蠈 蟿畏蟼 魏伪喂 伪谓慰委纬蔚喂 蟿蟻蠉蟺蔚蟼 蟽蟿慰 蠁苇蟻蔚蟿蟻慰 纬喂伪 谓伪 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 伪谓伪蟺谓苇蔚喂 蔚魏蔚委谓畏.
螌位畏 畏 慰喂魏慰纬苇谓蔚喂伪 苇蠂蔚喂 伪蟺慰 苇谓伪 苇谓慰蠂慰 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏蠈,伪蟺慰 渭喂伪 伪谓慰渭慰位蠈纬畏蟿畏 伪渭伪蟻蟿委伪 魏伪喂 蟺蟻慰蟼 蔚尉喂位苇蠅蟽畏 蠈位蠅谓 蟿慰蠀蟼 尉蔚魏喂谓慰蠉谓 伪蠀蟿萎 蟿畏 谓蔚魏蟻喂魏萎 蟺慰渭蟺萎 蟺慰蠀 未喂伪蟽蠂委味蔚喂 蟿慰谓 螒渭蔚蟻喂魏伪谓喂魏蠈 谓蠈蟿慰 魏伪喂 蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蔚蟺喂蠁维谓蔚喂伪 魏维胃蔚 蔚委未慰蠀蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 伪喂蟽胃畏蟿喂魏萎蟼.
螣喂 未蠀蟽魏慰位委蔚蟼 魏伪喂 畏 魏伪魏慰蟿蠀蠂委伪 蔚委谓伪喂 慰喂 渭蠈谓喂渭慰喂 蟽蠀谓慰未慰委 蟿慰蠀蟼. 螌位慰喂 纬喂伪 魏维蟺慰喂慰 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏蠈 位蠈纬慰 蔚蟺喂胃蠀渭慰蠉谓 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 渭伪魏维尾蟻喂慰 蟿伪尉委未喂.
螣喂 蟽蠂苇蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 未慰魏喂渭维味慰谓蟿伪喂,慰喂 渭维蟽魏蔚蟼 蟺苇蠁蟿慰蠀谓, 蟿伪 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏维 伪蟺慰魏伪位蠉蟺蟿慰谓蟿伪喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺慰蟻蔚委伪. 螠喂伪 蟺慰蟻蔚委伪 蟺慰蠀 苇蠂蔚喂 蟽蟿蟻慰蠁萎 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻维谓慰喂伪.
螠蔚蟿维 伪蟺慰 未苇魏伪 渭苇蟻蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂蠁慰蟻维蟼 蟿畏蟼 谓蔚魏蟻萎蟼 位蠈纬蠅 伪谓蟿喂尉慰慰蟿萎蟿蠅谓 畏 蟽萎蠄畏 蟺位畏渭渭蠀蟻委味蔚喂 蟿慰谓 伪苇蟻伪 魏伪喂 蟿喂蟼 蠄蠀蠂苇蟼.
螖蔚谓 蔚蟺喂蟽蟿蟻苇蠁慰蠀谓 蠈位慰喂 蟺委蟽蠅 渭蔚蟿维 伪蟺慰 伪蠀蟿萎 蟿畏谓 谓蔚魏蟻喂魏萎 蟺慰蟻蔚委伪.
螒蠀蟿慰委 蟺慰蠀 蔚蟺喂蟽蟿蟻苇蠁慰蠀谓 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 魏伪喂 未蔚谓 胃伪 纬委谓慰蠀谓 蟺慰蟿苇 伪蠀蟿慰委 蟺慰蠀 萎蟿伪谓 蟺蟻喂谓 蟿慰 蟿伪尉委未喂.
危蠀纬魏位慰谓喂蟽蟿喂魏蠈蟼 慰 渭慰谓蠈位慰纬慰蟼 蟿慰蠀 螡蟿伪蟻位 (苇谓伪蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿慰蠀蟼 纬喂慰蠉蟼) 蠈蟿伪谓 蟺喂伪 苇蠂蔚喂 蟺蔚蟻维蟽蔚喂 蟿伪 蠈蟻喂伪 蟿畏蟼 未喂伪蟿伪蟻伪蠂萎蟼.
韦喂 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 蟽蔚 魏维谓蔚喂 魏伪喂 纬蔚位维蟼;" 蟿慰蠀 位苇蠅.
芦螒蠀蟿蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈...禄.
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏!!
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼!!
螝伪胃蠋蟼.... 蠄蠀蠂慰蟻蟻伪纬蠋.
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 芦魏伪胃蠋蟼禄蔚委谓伪喂 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟽未委未蔚喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 尾伪胃蠉 渭蠀蟽蟿萎蟻喂慰 魏伪喂 蟺蠈谓慰 位蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟽蠀纬魏蔚谓蟿蟻蠋谓蔚喂 蟿慰 谓蠈畏渭伪 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 蠈位畏蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蟿畏谓 蠋蟻伪 蟿慰蠀 蔚蟺喂胃伪谓维蟿喂慰蠀 蟻蠈纬蠂慰蠀. 韦蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委蔚蟼 伪谓伪蟺谓慰苇蟼 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼
蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈蟿蔚蟻蔚蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 委未喂伪 蟿畏谓 伪谓维蟽伪 蟿蠅谓 味蠅谓蟿伪谓蠋谓.
螠蔚 魏蠀蟻委蔚蠀蟽蔚 伪蠀蟿蠈蟼 慰 蟿委蟿位慰蟼. 螠蔚 蟽畏渭维未蔚蠄蔚.
韦喂 伪位萎胃蔚喂伪 蟽魏苇蠁蟿蔚蟿伪喂 魏维蟺慰喂慰蟼 蟿喂蟼 蟿蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委蔚蟼 蟿慰蠀 蟽蟿喂纬渭苇蟼;
螝伪胃蠋蟼 蠄蠀蠂慰蟻蟻伪纬蔚委. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 蟿蔚位蔚喂蠋谓蔚喂. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 纬蔚蠉蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰蠀 蠄喂胃蠀蟻委味蔚喂 位蠈纬喂伪 伪谓蔚委蟺蠅蟿伪 魏伪喂 伪蟺伪纬慰蟻蔚蠀渭苇谓伪 蟽蔚 蠈蟽慰蠀蟼 未蔚谓 尾蟻蔚胃慰蠉谓 蟽蟿畏谓 委未喂伪 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏.
螝伪胃蠋蟼...胃伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟻纬维. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 畏 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 胃伪 蠂蔚喂蟻慰蟿蔚蟻蔚蠉蔚喂. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 蠈位伪 胃伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿伪. 螝伪胃蠋蟼 蟿伪 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏维 未蔚谓 蠀蟺萎蟻尉伪谓 蟺慰蟿苇 魏喂 伪谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂慰蠀谓 蟿蠋蟻伪 蔚委谓伪喂 伪谓伪蟽蟿蟻苇蠄喂渭伪 魏伪喂 渭蠈谓慰 渭蔚 蟿畏 蠁伪谓蟿伪蟽委伪 蟺蟻慰尾位苇蠄喂渭伪.
桅惟螝螡螘巍:
螖蔚谓 尉苇蟻蠅 谓伪 蟽伪蟼 蟺蠅 渭蔚 蟽喂纬慰蠀蟻喂维 伪谓 蔚委谓伪喂 慰 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏蠈蟿蔚蟻慰蟼 蟽蠀纬纬蟻伪蠁苇伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 20慰蠀 伪喂蠋谓伪. 螢苇蟻蠅 蠈渭蠅蟼 蟽委纬慰蠀蟻伪 蟺蠅蟼 伪蟺慰蟿蔚位蔚委 渭委伪 蟽蟺慰蠀未伪委伪 蟿畏蟼 位慰纬慰蟿蔚蠂谓委伪蟼 蟽蠂慰位萎.
螆蠂蔚喂 未喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 蟽蟿委纬渭伪. 螖喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 位伪蠆魏萎蟼 纬蟻伪蠁萎蟼 魏伪喂 纬位伪蠁蠀蟻萎蟼 蟻畏蟿慰蟻蔚委伪蟼. 螠蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 蔚谓蟿维尉蔚喂 蟿慰 纬魏蟻慰蟿苇蟽魏慰 魏伪喂 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏维 纬蔚位慰委慰 纬蔚纬慰谓蠈蟼 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 伪蟻喂蟽蟿慰蠀蟻纬畏渭伪蟿喂魏萎 未喂萎纬畏蟽畏. 螡伪 未畏渭喂慰蠀蟻纬萎蟽蔚喂 渭蔚 蟿伪 蟺喂慰 蟽魏慰蠉蟻伪 魏伪喂 蟽魏慰蟿蔚喂谓维 蠂蟻蠋渭伪蟿伪 苇谓伪谓 蟺委谓伪魏伪 蟺慰蠀 尉蔚蠂蔚喂位委味蔚喂 蠁蠅蟼 魏伪喂 味蠅萎. 螒谓慰委纬蔚喂 渭喂伪 魏伪喂谓慰蠉蟻纬喂伪 蟺蠈蟻蟿伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪谓伪纬谓蠅蟽蟿喂魏萎 伪谓蟿委位畏蠄畏,蟽魏苇蠄畏,喂魏伪谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 魏伪喂 未蠀谓伪蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪.
危委纬慰蠀蟻伪 胃蔚蠅蟻蠋 蟺蠅蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪 蟿慰谓 未喂伪尾维蟽蔚喂蟼 蟺蟻苇蟺蔚喂 谓伪 蔚委蟽伪喂 蟽蔚 蟺位萎蟻畏 蔚蟿慰喂渭蠈蟿畏蟿伪. 危蔚 伪谓维位慰纬慰 蠄蠀蠂喂蟽渭蠈,畏位喂魏委伪,魏伪位位喂苇蟻纬蔚喂伪 魏伪喂 蔚渭蟺蔚喂蟻委伪.
螤伪蟻伪魏慰位慰蠀胃慰蠉渭蔚 位慰喂蟺蠈谓 蟿慰 魏伪胃蠋蟼...渭喂伪蟼 蔚蟿慰喂渭慰胃维谓伪蟿畏蟼 渭畏蟿苇蟻伪蟼 5 蟺伪喂未喂蠋谓 魏伪喂 蔚谓蠈蟼 蟽蠀味蠉纬慰蠀,伪渭蠁喂蟽尾畏蟿慰蠉渭蔚谓蠅谓 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 委未喂伪.
螚 蟽魏苇蠄畏 蟿畏蟼-蟿畏谓 慰蟺慰委伪 魏伪喂 未喂伪尾维味慰蠀渭蔚 渭蔚蟿维 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰 蟿畏蟼-蠁蠅谓维味蔚喂 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 蟽蠂苇蟽畏 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 纬维渭慰,蟿畏谓 伪蠀蟿慰胃蠀蟽委伪 蟿畏蟼 纬蠀谓伪委魏伪蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿伪蟺喂苇味蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿伪 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏维 魏伪喂 胃蟻畏蟽魏蔚蠀蟿喂魏维 蟺蟻蠈蟿蠀蟺伪,蟿畏谓 伪谓伪纬魏伪蟽蟿喂魏萎 渭畏蟿蟻蠈蟿畏蟿伪 魏伪喂 蟿慰 渭蔚纬维位慰 伪渭维蟻蟿畏渭伪 蟿慰蠀 蟺维胃慰蠀蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰 慰谓慰渭维味慰蠀谓 位维胃慰蟼 蠈蟽慰喂 蟺慰蟿苇 未蔚谓 蟿慰 苇味畏蟽伪谓.
韦蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委伪 蟿畏蟼 蔚蟺喂胃蠀渭委伪 谓伪 胃伪蠁蟿蔚委 蟽蟿慰 渭苇蟻慰蟼 蟺慰蠀 纬蔚谓谓萎胃畏魏蔚 魏伪喂 伪蠁慰蠉 尾蟻委蟽魏蔚蟿伪喂 蟺慰位蠉 渭伪魏蟻喂维 伪蟺慰 蔚魏蔚委 蟺慰蠀 味蔚喂,蟺蟻慰蠇蟺慰胃苇蟿蔚喂 慰未慰喂蟺慰蟻喂魏蠈 蠈位畏蟼 蟿畏蟼 慰喂魏慰纬苇谓蔚喂伪蟼 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿慰谓 慰喂魏慰纬蔚谓蔚喂伪魏蠈 蟿畏蟼 蟿维蠁慰.
螒蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 慰未慰喂蟺慰蟻喂魏蠈 蟿畏蟼 伪纬蟻慰蟿喂魏萎蟼 慰喂魏慰纬苇谓蔚喂伪蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟻畏渭维味蔚喂 伪蟺慰 伪谓苇蠂蔚喂伪 魏伪喂 蠁蟿蠋蠂蔚喂伪 伪位位维 未喂伪魏伪蟿苇蠂蔚蟿伪喂 伪蟺慰 尾伪胃蠉 伪委蟽胃畏渭伪 蠀蟺蔚蟻畏蠁维谓蔚喂伪蟼 魏伪喂 蔚谓蟿喂渭蠈蟿畏蟿伪蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿蠈蟽慰 纬蔚位慰委慰,维胃位喂慰 魏伪喂 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏蠈 蟺慰蠀 蟺慰谓维蔚喂 渭苇蠂蟻喂 未伪魏蟻蠉蠅谓.
螤蟻喂谓 蟿慰 胃维谓伪蟿慰, 蠈蟿伪谓 尾蟻喂蟽魏蠈渭伪蟽蟿伪谓 伪魏蠈渭畏 蟽蟿慰 魏伪胃蠋蟼...慰 渭蔚纬维位慰蟼 纬喂慰蟼 伪谓伪位伪渭尾维谓蔚喂 谓伪 蠁蟿喂维尉蔚喂 蟿慰 蠁苇蟻蔚蟿蟻慰 蟿畏蟼 渭畏蟿苇蟻伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 魏伪喂 渭维位喂蟽蟿伪 蟿慰 渭伪蟽蟿慰蟻蔚蠉蔚喂 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿慰 蟺伪蟻维胃蠀蟻慰 蟿畏蟼 蔚蟿慰喂渭慰胃维谓伪蟿畏蟼 纬喂伪 谓伪
蟿慰 尾位苇蟺蔚喂 魏伪喂 谓伪 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 蟽蠀谓蟿蟻慰蠁喂维 蟿畏蟼 蟽蟿慰 魏伪胃蠋蟼...
螣 胃维谓伪蟿慰蟼 未喂伪蟿伪蟻维蟽蟽蔚喂 蟿慰 渭喂魏蟻蠈蟿蔚蟻慰 蟺伪喂未委 蟺慰蠀 蠀蟺慰蠁苇蟻蔚喂 魏伪喂 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂蠋蟼 渭慰谓慰位慰纬蔚委 蟺蠅蟼 畏 渭维谓伪 蟿慰蠀 蔚委谓伪喂 蠄维蟻喂. 螒蟻谓蔚委蟿伪喂 蟿慰 蠁蔚蠀纬喂蠈 蟿畏蟼 魏伪喂 伪谓慰委纬蔚喂 蟿蟻蠉蟺蔚蟼 蟽蟿慰 蠁苇蟻蔚蟿蟻慰 纬喂伪 谓伪 渭蟺慰蟻蔚委 谓伪 伪谓伪蟺谓苇蔚喂 蔚魏蔚委谓畏.
螌位畏 畏 慰喂魏慰纬苇谓蔚喂伪 苇蠂蔚喂 伪蟺慰 苇谓伪 苇谓慰蠂慰 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏蠈,伪蟺慰 渭喂伪 伪谓慰渭慰位蠈纬畏蟿畏 伪渭伪蟻蟿委伪 魏伪喂 蟺蟻慰蟼 蔚尉喂位苇蠅蟽畏 蠈位蠅谓 蟿慰蠀蟼 尉蔚魏喂谓慰蠉谓 伪蠀蟿萎 蟿畏 谓蔚魏蟻喂魏萎 蟺慰渭蟺萎 蟺慰蠀 未喂伪蟽蠂委味蔚喂 蟿慰谓 螒渭蔚蟻喂魏伪谓喂魏蠈 谓蠈蟿慰 魏伪喂 蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蔚蟺喂蠁维谓蔚喂伪 魏维胃蔚 蔚委未慰蠀蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 伪喂蟽胃畏蟿喂魏萎蟼.
螣喂 未蠀蟽魏慰位委蔚蟼 魏伪喂 畏 魏伪魏慰蟿蠀蠂委伪 蔚委谓伪喂 慰喂 渭蠈谓喂渭慰喂 蟽蠀谓慰未慰委 蟿慰蠀蟼. 螌位慰喂 纬喂伪 魏维蟺慰喂慰 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏蠈 位蠈纬慰 蔚蟺喂胃蠀渭慰蠉谓 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟿慰 渭伪魏维尾蟻喂慰 蟿伪尉委未喂.
螣喂 蟽蠂苇蟽蔚喂蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 未慰魏喂渭维味慰谓蟿伪喂,慰喂 渭维蟽魏蔚蟼 蟺苇蠁蟿慰蠀谓, 蟿伪 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏维 伪蟺慰魏伪位蠉蟺蟿慰谓蟿伪喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺慰蟻蔚委伪. 螠喂伪 蟺慰蟻蔚委伪 蟺慰蠀 苇蠂蔚喂 蟽蟿蟻慰蠁萎 蟺蟻慰蟼 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻维谓慰喂伪.
螠蔚蟿维 伪蟺慰 未苇魏伪 渭苇蟻蔚蟼 蟺蔚蟻喂蠁慰蟻维蟼 蟿畏蟼 谓蔚魏蟻萎蟼 位蠈纬蠅 伪谓蟿喂尉慰慰蟿萎蟿蠅谓 畏 蟽萎蠄畏 蟺位畏渭渭蠀蟻委味蔚喂 蟿慰谓 伪苇蟻伪 魏伪喂 蟿喂蟼 蠄蠀蠂苇蟼.
螖蔚谓 蔚蟺喂蟽蟿蟻苇蠁慰蠀谓 蠈位慰喂 蟺委蟽蠅 渭蔚蟿维 伪蟺慰 伪蠀蟿萎 蟿畏谓 谓蔚魏蟻喂魏萎 蟺慰蟻蔚委伪.
螒蠀蟿慰委 蟺慰蠀 蔚蟺喂蟽蟿蟻苇蠁慰蠀谓 未蔚谓 蔚委谓伪喂 魏伪喂 未蔚谓 胃伪 纬委谓慰蠀谓 蟺慰蟿苇 伪蠀蟿慰委 蟺慰蠀 萎蟿伪谓 蟺蟻喂谓 蟿慰 蟿伪尉委未喂.
危蠀纬魏位慰谓喂蟽蟿喂魏蠈蟼 慰 渭慰谓蠈位慰纬慰蟼 蟿慰蠀 螡蟿伪蟻位 (苇谓伪蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿慰蠀蟼 纬喂慰蠉蟼) 蠈蟿伪谓 蟺喂伪 苇蠂蔚喂 蟺蔚蟻维蟽蔚喂 蟿伪 蠈蟻喂伪 蟿畏蟼 未喂伪蟿伪蟻伪蠂萎蟼.
韦喂 蔚委谓伪喂 伪蠀蟿蠈 蟺慰蠀 蟽蔚 魏维谓蔚喂 魏伪喂 纬蔚位维蟼;" 蟿慰蠀 位苇蠅.
芦螒蠀蟿蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈 伪蠀蟿蠈...禄.
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏!!
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼!!
June 24, 2024
That feeling when you close a book, and it is like you can't breathe, because all the breath of life seems to be stuck in that story, and you just finished it, and there is a vacuum inside.
That feeling when you try to describe a book, and all the adjectives you come up with are negative, and yet the story has such power, and you loved it, like life.
That feeling when you are not sure what to read next, because whatever you pick will carry some of the flavour of the sorrow and the hopelessness and the sadness and the excruciatingly unfair black comedy of uneducated, poor, religious life.
That feeling when the novel spills over into real life and makes you hear your heart beat for people that may not exist, but that are more real than many of your neighbours.
That feeling you share with a main character that you aren't sure where the thin line between sanity and insanity is drawn, and whether it is in the eye of the beholder to make a final decision:
"Sometimes I aint so sho who's got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It's like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it's the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it."
That is reminiscent of Emily Dickinson's beautiful poem on madness:
Much Madness is divinest Sense-
To a discerning Eye-
Much Sense-the starkest Madness-
鈥楾is the Majority
In this, as All, prevail-
Assent- and you are sane-
Demur- you鈥檙e straightway dangerous-
And handled with a Chain-
I LOVED this novel, and it made my stomach turn. I don't know what the majority of readers would make of this polyphonic Job's journey or Greek tragic odyssey through a fictional Southern landscape, but I figure I am mad in the Dickinson or Faulkner way. There is so much truth in the choir of the voices in the Bundren family, even though each voice alone seems random and mad and disoriented.
The underlying social issues, stemming from the hopeless choicelessness of the poor and uneducated people in the rural South, are not explicitly made a topic as in Steinbeck's novels, but rather hinted at in the confused unawareness of those living that life themselves, unable to raise their voices coherently to demand change.
Religion hovers above their heads as a stick and a carrot. "If you do this, you will face eternal punishment...", "if you suffer through that, God will praise you in heaven"... Most of the time, the Christian doctrines remain mysterious to the characters, and they can't see why an omniscient and omnipotent god would choose to do what he does to them. Has he chosen to let the Devil act to make a 17-year-old girl pregnant and to let her be left alone with ten dollars to try to get an abortion? And what divine sense of humour makes her fail at that and become a renewed victim of sexual exploitation, while her father takes the ten dollars she kept to get himself new teeth and another woman?
Getting their mother buried in her hometown exposes the siblings to extreme situations from which they won't all recover. Some of them will be marked forever by the strain that forced them to balance on the thin line between madness and sanity. I will hear their voices and remember that I walk on that line too.
To the cast of the play, a huge thank you for letting me join you on the stormy ride:
Vardaman - There's no shame in having a fish for a mother!
Cash - You are a mighty fine man, and a voice of care and reason, and when luck means breaking the same leg twice, you certainly know how to cherish your good star!
Darl - I understand you, that line is mighty thin, especially in times of hardship!
Dewey Dell - You have the future on your side, your daughters and granddaughters will have more rights and less vulnerability!
Jewel - There is power underneath your confusion if you can get it sorted!
Anse - Being headless amounts to child abuse!
Addie - Your story is universal!
Christians and gods - the usual cast!
That feeling when you try to describe a book, and all the adjectives you come up with are negative, and yet the story has such power, and you loved it, like life.
That feeling when you are not sure what to read next, because whatever you pick will carry some of the flavour of the sorrow and the hopelessness and the sadness and the excruciatingly unfair black comedy of uneducated, poor, religious life.
That feeling when the novel spills over into real life and makes you hear your heart beat for people that may not exist, but that are more real than many of your neighbours.
That feeling you share with a main character that you aren't sure where the thin line between sanity and insanity is drawn, and whether it is in the eye of the beholder to make a final decision:
"Sometimes I aint so sho who's got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It's like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it's the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it."
That is reminiscent of Emily Dickinson's beautiful poem on madness:
Much Madness is divinest Sense-
To a discerning Eye-
Much Sense-the starkest Madness-
鈥楾is the Majority
In this, as All, prevail-
Assent- and you are sane-
Demur- you鈥檙e straightway dangerous-
And handled with a Chain-
I LOVED this novel, and it made my stomach turn. I don't know what the majority of readers would make of this polyphonic Job's journey or Greek tragic odyssey through a fictional Southern landscape, but I figure I am mad in the Dickinson or Faulkner way. There is so much truth in the choir of the voices in the Bundren family, even though each voice alone seems random and mad and disoriented.
The underlying social issues, stemming from the hopeless choicelessness of the poor and uneducated people in the rural South, are not explicitly made a topic as in Steinbeck's novels, but rather hinted at in the confused unawareness of those living that life themselves, unable to raise their voices coherently to demand change.
Religion hovers above their heads as a stick and a carrot. "If you do this, you will face eternal punishment...", "if you suffer through that, God will praise you in heaven"... Most of the time, the Christian doctrines remain mysterious to the characters, and they can't see why an omniscient and omnipotent god would choose to do what he does to them. Has he chosen to let the Devil act to make a 17-year-old girl pregnant and to let her be left alone with ten dollars to try to get an abortion? And what divine sense of humour makes her fail at that and become a renewed victim of sexual exploitation, while her father takes the ten dollars she kept to get himself new teeth and another woman?
Getting their mother buried in her hometown exposes the siblings to extreme situations from which they won't all recover. Some of them will be marked forever by the strain that forced them to balance on the thin line between madness and sanity. I will hear their voices and remember that I walk on that line too.
To the cast of the play, a huge thank you for letting me join you on the stormy ride:
Vardaman - There's no shame in having a fish for a mother!
Cash - You are a mighty fine man, and a voice of care and reason, and when luck means breaking the same leg twice, you certainly know how to cherish your good star!
Darl - I understand you, that line is mighty thin, especially in times of hardship!
Dewey Dell - You have the future on your side, your daughters and granddaughters will have more rights and less vulnerability!
Jewel - There is power underneath your confusion if you can get it sorted!
Anse - Being headless amounts to child abuse!
Addie - Your story is universal!
Christians and gods - the usual cast!
February 5, 2022
鈥淚 could just remember how my father used to say that the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time.鈥�
I've mentioned before in my reviews that I majored in English in college, and I always found it funny how much my particular university seemed to hate classics. With the exception of The Great Gatsby and a few Victorian novels that were in one specific class focusing on the subject, I don't think we read a single novel written before the 1960s. As such I sometimes look at my list of classics that I've read and feel a bit disappointed in myself. For example, we never read anything by William Faulkner. Well, I decided to finally correct that.
I chose this book for two reasons. First because I've seen it on several lists of the greatest English language novels. The second reason is that wonderful title. Well, what did I think of it going into it mostly blind as I knew nothing of the plot?
Well, I found Faulkner's style stunning and frustrating in equal parts. The stream of conscious writing style makes some characters very difficult to understand and I found myself rereading some scenes trying to figure out exactly what happened. I usually figured it out by the next chapter as Faulkner seemed to recognize this and intend that effect in some chapters. As such, frequently the next chapter reexplain things a little more clearly from another character鈥檚 point of view.
The plot is simple enough, a family travels to a nearby town to bury their recently deceased mother/wife. Weather, injury and seemingly God himself all seem determined that they will not succeed in this鈥� but they will keep going, "not begrudging it none." It's simple and doesn't sound that fascinating, but it is an excellent character study. Every one of those characters feels like a real person, and seeing their stream of conscious thoughts makes them feel real despite never getting detailed descriptions of them. The ending is also one of the cleverest I've ever read, making the entire thing feel like an even darker comedy than I realized at first.
This is a wonderful novel, something truly unique and close to perfection. It may have frustrated me at times, but that's not a criticism though I'm sure it is a deal breaker for some readers. I delighted in its language and trying to understand these characters. A rare 5/5 stars.
I've mentioned before in my reviews that I majored in English in college, and I always found it funny how much my particular university seemed to hate classics. With the exception of The Great Gatsby and a few Victorian novels that were in one specific class focusing on the subject, I don't think we read a single novel written before the 1960s. As such I sometimes look at my list of classics that I've read and feel a bit disappointed in myself. For example, we never read anything by William Faulkner. Well, I decided to finally correct that.
I chose this book for two reasons. First because I've seen it on several lists of the greatest English language novels. The second reason is that wonderful title. Well, what did I think of it going into it mostly blind as I knew nothing of the plot?
Well, I found Faulkner's style stunning and frustrating in equal parts. The stream of conscious writing style makes some characters very difficult to understand and I found myself rereading some scenes trying to figure out exactly what happened. I usually figured it out by the next chapter as Faulkner seemed to recognize this and intend that effect in some chapters. As such, frequently the next chapter reexplain things a little more clearly from another character鈥檚 point of view.
The plot is simple enough, a family travels to a nearby town to bury their recently deceased mother/wife. Weather, injury and seemingly God himself all seem determined that they will not succeed in this鈥� but they will keep going, "not begrudging it none." It's simple and doesn't sound that fascinating, but it is an excellent character study. Every one of those characters feels like a real person, and seeing their stream of conscious thoughts makes them feel real despite never getting detailed descriptions of them. The ending is also one of the cleverest I've ever read, making the entire thing feel like an even darker comedy than I realized at first.
This is a wonderful novel, something truly unique and close to perfection. It may have frustrated me at times, but that's not a criticism though I'm sure it is a deal breaker for some readers. I delighted in its language and trying to understand these characters. A rare 5/5 stars.
December 26, 2024
Un roman important care dovede葯te, 卯nc膬 o dat膬, c膬 pl膬cerea 葯i valoarea nu coincid. Exist膬, ne卯ndoielnic, c膬r葲i valoroase care se citesc f膬r膬 mare pl膬cere. Despre cele proaste care se citesc cu delicii nu are rost s膬 mai vorbesc...
Ca s膬 fiu franc, la prima lectur膬 nu am 卯n葲eles romanul. L-am citit la 卯ndemnul unui prieten (tot la 卯ndemnul lui am citit 葯i Zgomotul 葯i furia, apoi 颁膬迟耻苍耻濒, apoi Lumin膬 卯n august), dar nici una dintre aceste c膬r葲i nu mi-a trezit sentimentul c膬 am str膬b膬tut romanele unui prozator 卯nsemnat. Acum 卯mi dau seama c膬 nu eram preg膬tit pentru lectura lui Faulkner. Monologurile din Pe patul de moarte, adeseori incoerente 葯i 卯ntr-un limbaj agramat, cer o lectur膬 r膬bd膬toare, iar mie tocmai r膬bdarea 卯mi lipsea.
Ac葲iunea nu pune probleme, e liniar膬, cele 59 de 鈥瀡oci鈥� narative urmeaz膬 firul cronologic: o femeie, Addie Bundren, trage s膬 moar膬, iar fiul ei, Cash, care e dulgher, 卯i construie葯te racla. Din curte, se aud fier膬str膬ul, rindeauna, loviturile de ciocan. Jewell e nemul葲umit, ar vrea mai mult膬 discre葲ie. 脦n cas膬, fata lui Addie, Dewey Dell, 卯i face v卯nt cu evantaiul. 脦nainte de a muri, femeia prive葯te pe geam 葯i 卯i cere lui Cash s膬-i arate sicriul. Totul e straniu 葯i, totodat膬, firesc 卯ntr-o lume de fermieri s膬raci, obi葯nuit膬 cu moartea. Sf卯r葯itul omului se 卯nscrie 卯n 葯irul evenimentelor naturale, al ploilor care fac ca r卯urile s膬-葯i ias膬 din matc膬 葯i podurile s膬 fie distruse.
Addie i-a cerut so葲ului, Anse, s膬 fie 卯nmorm卯ntat膬 卯n cimitirul din Jefferson, Mississippi, al膬turi de tat膬l ei. 脦ntr-o procesiune grotesc膬 葯i cu mare 卯nt卯rziere, familia 卯i 卯ndepline葯te dorin葲a. Totu葯i, nici un membru al familiei nu pare normal. Vardaman, fiul cel mic, e pu葲in la minte 葯i crede c膬 mama lui s-a transformat 卯ntr-un pe葯te, Anse e mai preocupat de dantur膬 dec卯t de 卯nmorm卯ntare, Jewel e un individ furios, sup膬rat pe toat膬 lumea, Dewey Dell se g卯nde葯te la un avort, Darl Bundren, 卯n cele 19 monologuri ale lui, se dovede葯te un vizionar 葯i un lunatic, care ajunge la azilul de nebuni.
脦n mintea lui Darl, evenimentul cap膬t膬 tonalit膬葲i apocaliptice: aerul are miros de pucioas膬, v膬zduhul e 卯ntunecat, deasupra casei se adun膬, amenin葲膬tor, corbii: 鈥濶emi艧ca牛i, corbii uria艧i sp卯nzur膬 de cer 卯n cercuri plutitoare, curgerea norilor n膬sc卯nd p膬rerea c膬, de fapt, ei se mi艧c膬 卯n sens invers鈥�. Tot el: 鈥濴umina s-a f膬cut de culoarea aramei: 卯n ochi piaz膬-rea, 卯n n膬ri pucioas膬, miroase a fulgere鈥�.
脦n chip paradoxal, cele 59 de monologuri interioare (unul 卯i apar葲ine r膬posatei), de multe ori 卯nc卯lcite, devin ironice 卯n monotonia lor primitiv膬 葯i se remarc膬, uneori, printr-un lirism 葯ocant: 鈥濩卯nd ajung la izvor 艧i cobor 艧i leg caii, soarele tocmai sc膬p膬ta... ca o movil膬 de cenu艧膬 r膬sturnat膬 acolo, sus鈥� (Peabody). Sau: 鈥炁瀒-acum ea [Addie Bundren] se duce-at卯ta de departe, c膬 n-o mai pot prinde... Atunci nu erea 艧i ea erea 艧i-acum este, da ea nu mai erea鈥� (Vardaman).
Tull nu e lipsit de un anume umor involuntar: 鈥濩卯nd 艧i c卯nd, omu st膬 de se g卯nde艧te la asta. Drept, nu prea des. Ceea ce-i un lucru bun. C膬ci Domnu l-a l膬sat pe p膬m卯nt ca s膬 fac膬 艧i nu ca s膬 iroseasc膬 timp prea mult cu g卯nditu, fiindc膬 creeru-i ca o roti牛膬 de ma艧in膬rie: nu 牛ine dac膬-l tot munce艧ti... Am zis-o 艧i o zic iar膬 艧i iar膬, asta-i dintotdeauna buba cu Darl: prea se tot g卯nde艧te鈥�.
William Faulkner a creat o serie de personaje dominate de instinct, impulsive, 卯nclinate spre violen葲膬 葯i gesturi nes膬buite. Nu pot fi uitate u葯or...
Ca s膬 fiu franc, la prima lectur膬 nu am 卯n葲eles romanul. L-am citit la 卯ndemnul unui prieten (tot la 卯ndemnul lui am citit 葯i Zgomotul 葯i furia, apoi 颁膬迟耻苍耻濒, apoi Lumin膬 卯n august), dar nici una dintre aceste c膬r葲i nu mi-a trezit sentimentul c膬 am str膬b膬tut romanele unui prozator 卯nsemnat. Acum 卯mi dau seama c膬 nu eram preg膬tit pentru lectura lui Faulkner. Monologurile din Pe patul de moarte, adeseori incoerente 葯i 卯ntr-un limbaj agramat, cer o lectur膬 r膬bd膬toare, iar mie tocmai r膬bdarea 卯mi lipsea.
Ac葲iunea nu pune probleme, e liniar膬, cele 59 de 鈥瀡oci鈥� narative urmeaz膬 firul cronologic: o femeie, Addie Bundren, trage s膬 moar膬, iar fiul ei, Cash, care e dulgher, 卯i construie葯te racla. Din curte, se aud fier膬str膬ul, rindeauna, loviturile de ciocan. Jewell e nemul葲umit, ar vrea mai mult膬 discre葲ie. 脦n cas膬, fata lui Addie, Dewey Dell, 卯i face v卯nt cu evantaiul. 脦nainte de a muri, femeia prive葯te pe geam 葯i 卯i cere lui Cash s膬-i arate sicriul. Totul e straniu 葯i, totodat膬, firesc 卯ntr-o lume de fermieri s膬raci, obi葯nuit膬 cu moartea. Sf卯r葯itul omului se 卯nscrie 卯n 葯irul evenimentelor naturale, al ploilor care fac ca r卯urile s膬-葯i ias膬 din matc膬 葯i podurile s膬 fie distruse.
Addie i-a cerut so葲ului, Anse, s膬 fie 卯nmorm卯ntat膬 卯n cimitirul din Jefferson, Mississippi, al膬turi de tat膬l ei. 脦ntr-o procesiune grotesc膬 葯i cu mare 卯nt卯rziere, familia 卯i 卯ndepline葯te dorin葲a. Totu葯i, nici un membru al familiei nu pare normal. Vardaman, fiul cel mic, e pu葲in la minte 葯i crede c膬 mama lui s-a transformat 卯ntr-un pe葯te, Anse e mai preocupat de dantur膬 dec卯t de 卯nmorm卯ntare, Jewel e un individ furios, sup膬rat pe toat膬 lumea, Dewey Dell se g卯nde葯te la un avort, Darl Bundren, 卯n cele 19 monologuri ale lui, se dovede葯te un vizionar 葯i un lunatic, care ajunge la azilul de nebuni.
脦n mintea lui Darl, evenimentul cap膬t膬 tonalit膬葲i apocaliptice: aerul are miros de pucioas膬, v膬zduhul e 卯ntunecat, deasupra casei se adun膬, amenin葲膬tor, corbii: 鈥濶emi艧ca牛i, corbii uria艧i sp卯nzur膬 de cer 卯n cercuri plutitoare, curgerea norilor n膬sc卯nd p膬rerea c膬, de fapt, ei se mi艧c膬 卯n sens invers鈥�. Tot el: 鈥濴umina s-a f膬cut de culoarea aramei: 卯n ochi piaz膬-rea, 卯n n膬ri pucioas膬, miroase a fulgere鈥�.
脦n chip paradoxal, cele 59 de monologuri interioare (unul 卯i apar葲ine r膬posatei), de multe ori 卯nc卯lcite, devin ironice 卯n monotonia lor primitiv膬 葯i se remarc膬, uneori, printr-un lirism 葯ocant: 鈥濩卯nd ajung la izvor 艧i cobor 艧i leg caii, soarele tocmai sc膬p膬ta... ca o movil膬 de cenu艧膬 r膬sturnat膬 acolo, sus鈥� (Peabody). Sau: 鈥炁瀒-acum ea [Addie Bundren] se duce-at卯ta de departe, c膬 n-o mai pot prinde... Atunci nu erea 艧i ea erea 艧i-acum este, da ea nu mai erea鈥� (Vardaman).
Tull nu e lipsit de un anume umor involuntar: 鈥濩卯nd 艧i c卯nd, omu st膬 de se g卯nde艧te la asta. Drept, nu prea des. Ceea ce-i un lucru bun. C膬ci Domnu l-a l膬sat pe p膬m卯nt ca s膬 fac膬 艧i nu ca s膬 iroseasc膬 timp prea mult cu g卯nditu, fiindc膬 creeru-i ca o roti牛膬 de ma艧in膬rie: nu 牛ine dac膬-l tot munce艧ti... Am zis-o 艧i o zic iar膬 艧i iar膬, asta-i dintotdeauna buba cu Darl: prea se tot g卯nde艧te鈥�.
William Faulkner a creat o serie de personaje dominate de instinct, impulsive, 卯nclinate spre violen葲膬 葯i gesturi nes膬buite. Nu pot fi uitate u葯or...
November 7, 2024
"Went on a trip and all I got was this lousy step-mom"
September 15, 2019
"My mother is a fish."
Faulkner's short novel about a rural family following the death of their matriarch. Funny, disturbing, maddening, thought provoking, and mysterious.
I have never been a big fan of stream of consciousness ( thus I have never finished ) and Faulkner does well to limit that technique here. He does employ multiple narrators, varying perspectives, themes and an eclectic narration.
I cannot help thinking this is a thin, minimalistic American version of .
Faulkner's short novel about a rural family following the death of their matriarch. Funny, disturbing, maddening, thought provoking, and mysterious.
I have never been a big fan of stream of consciousness ( thus I have never finished ) and Faulkner does well to limit that technique here. He does employ multiple narrators, varying perspectives, themes and an eclectic narration.
I cannot help thinking this is a thin, minimalistic American version of .
August 23, 2019
This thrilling, chilling tale is told through a sort of schizm. The conglomeration of different consciousnesses is a bubbling soup mixed in with dark symbols & Southern Gothic elements, and it is indeed a delightful experience, an overly-delicious dish. The macabre is Alive; this prose palpitates.
This is waayyy more accessible than, say, "The Sound and the Fury" and for those who have strayed away from this darling writer, this particular masterpiece will immediately put him or her in Faulkner's direct sphere of influence-- he/she will swim in that dark, twisted atmosphere, bask in it for some long while. Read this and you will know what Faulkner & his deep, haunted, tortured South are all about.
The Best Willy Faulkner book?
This is waayyy more accessible than, say, "The Sound and the Fury" and for those who have strayed away from this darling writer, this particular masterpiece will immediately put him or her in Faulkner's direct sphere of influence-- he/she will swim in that dark, twisted atmosphere, bask in it for some long while. Read this and you will know what Faulkner & his deep, haunted, tortured South are all about.
The Best Willy Faulkner book?
April 19, 2024
As I Lay Dying is a peculiar novel and that is saying something since the writer is William Faulkner. Picture the plot ; a dead woman named Addie Bundren, mother of five is in a box on a wagon pulled by mules being taken to a cemetery to be buried , by her family in a place where her own deceased relatives preside. Set in 1930 Mississippi where everyone is dirt poor and the trip will give pain throughout the distant journey caused by the river flooding and the bridges collapsing in the rising waters. The lazy husband Anse in consequence brought down the woman, worn out prematurely by him, she leaves. Cash the eldest is a great carpenter always hammering, making the coffin sadly, Darl unstable, Jewel big, seems not quite fitting with the smaller family group, Dewey Dell only daughter she is hiding a large problem and last, youngest and least Vardaman at about 10 using childish words annoying all. ACCIDENTS OCCUR frequently when the silly father invariably makes wrong decisions, a bit greedy , one of many shortcomings. The long adventures of days living on the ground by the wagon , in barns, the proud family rejects numerous offers to stay in peoples homes , nevertheless the members would rather suffer in silence. Doctor Peabody works for free, not his choice however, the Bundrens keep him busy. But that is not the worse situation ... a delicate odor spreads on the land and citizens begin to avoid them. Angry words travel faster than the creaky wagon rolls, hills must be conquered and the unending roads full of rain can be traverse, maybe . You probably would be able, that is ...
to guess the difficulties and the weird glances of town folks viewing in windows, streets and stores with a state of disbelief at the strange humans. Constantly bickering among themselves never knowing what to do next. The little hamlets stand in the hot dusty land seemingly forever impoverished, yet always there. The narrative will take a while to get comfortable with, since the more than a dozen characters have a turn in each chapter commenting on the action. Faulkner was a wonderful author giving readers a superb slice of life it might not be fun still quality is there for any to see. Not a surprise that Faulkner loved his birthplace , indigent Mississippi...
to guess the difficulties and the weird glances of town folks viewing in windows, streets and stores with a state of disbelief at the strange humans. Constantly bickering among themselves never knowing what to do next. The little hamlets stand in the hot dusty land seemingly forever impoverished, yet always there. The narrative will take a while to get comfortable with, since the more than a dozen characters have a turn in each chapter commenting on the action. Faulkner was a wonderful author giving readers a superb slice of life it might not be fun still quality is there for any to see. Not a surprise that Faulkner loved his birthplace , indigent Mississippi...
December 8, 2024
5* / second reading. Faulkner at his best on this stream of consciousness - interior monologue- narrative鈥︹€淭he process of coming unalone is terrible鈥︹€�
Southern 鈥� Gothic鈥� storytelling of a deeply flawed and disturbing family full of lingering bitterness, decay and despair: an absurdity that is both comic and tragic鈥� 鈥渢he dark were resolving him out of his integrity, into an unrelated scattering of components 鈥� snuffings and samplings; smells of cooling flesh and ammoniac hair; an illusion of a co-ordinated whole of splotched hide and strong bones within which, detached and secret and familiar, an is different from my is.鈥�
A travelogue through derelict southern settings of characters entangled in grotesque situations and sinister events relating to poverty, religion, alienation and violence... 鈥渋t is thought upon a face carved by a savage caricaturist a monstrous burlesque of all bereavement flowed鈥︹€�
A glare to human soul without reproach, without anything at all 鈥� quiet: 鈥淚 can cry quietly now, feeling and hearing my tears鈥�.
Lost faith in human nature, assailed by doubt 鈥� an irrevocable quality.
鈥淚 feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth鈥� .
Vardaman: 鈥淢y mother is a fish鈥�
Brilliant
P.S On time: The space between us were time 鈥t is as though time, no longer running straight before us like in a diminishing line, now runs parallel between us like a looping string, tie distance being the doubling accretion of the thread and not the interval between.
Southern 鈥� Gothic鈥� storytelling of a deeply flawed and disturbing family full of lingering bitterness, decay and despair: an absurdity that is both comic and tragic鈥� 鈥渢he dark were resolving him out of his integrity, into an unrelated scattering of components 鈥� snuffings and samplings; smells of cooling flesh and ammoniac hair; an illusion of a co-ordinated whole of splotched hide and strong bones within which, detached and secret and familiar, an is different from my is.鈥�
A travelogue through derelict southern settings of characters entangled in grotesque situations and sinister events relating to poverty, religion, alienation and violence... 鈥渋t is thought upon a face carved by a savage caricaturist a monstrous burlesque of all bereavement flowed鈥︹€�
A glare to human soul without reproach, without anything at all 鈥� quiet: 鈥淚 can cry quietly now, feeling and hearing my tears鈥�.
Lost faith in human nature, assailed by doubt 鈥� an irrevocable quality.
鈥淚 feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth鈥� .
Vardaman: 鈥淢y mother is a fish鈥�
Brilliant
P.S On time: The space between us were time 鈥t is as though time, no longer running straight before us like in a diminishing line, now runs parallel between us like a looping string, tie distance being the doubling accretion of the thread and not the interval between.
July 6, 2022
Aunque la prosa es exquisita, la novela es extremadamente aburrida. No compensa. Sobrevalorada.
Although prose is exquisite, the novel is extremely boring. It does not compensate. Overrated.
Although prose is exquisite, the novel is extremely boring. It does not compensate. Overrated.
February 13, 2010
Without straying from his inimitable voice, Faulkner delivers a more professional, calculated effort here than with his novel of the year prior, The Sound and the Fury. There are more novel-y aspects to As I Lay Dying, and Faulkner emerges as the master of the slow- or late-reveal, which might be described as reverse-foreshadowing. As an example, Faulkner will provide a character scene that鈥檚 fraught with emotion and history and meaning, but he won't explain the context. There鈥檚 dramatic electricity, and we fully expect to understand the situation even while failing to receive any adumbrations. And that鈥檚 because Faulkner 颈蝉苍鈥檛 actually hinting at events to come; he鈥檚 showing us something we can鈥檛 understand without promises of future textual elucidation. We just have to trust that he鈥檒l come through, which of course he always does via hints that come after the event. It鈥檚 sort of uncomfortable, and it made me reread certain passages obsessively, assuming that something must have slipped by. But this way we get to feel the drama first with disorientation rather than with understanding.
I鈥檝e read a few confusing novels, and no writer seems to use this method of disorientation so deliberately and so effectively as a ploy. Faulkner puts us at his mercy. He鈥檚 the one calling the shots, and we have to play by his rules. More than anything else, I think it's this aspect that can make people uneasy or unhappy with his works. But really it's a gift, leaving us with the rawness and incomprehensibility of life, which only begin to make sense in hindsight through functions of memory and our desire to find order and purpose. This, along with stream of consciousness, is what gives Faulkner as much of a claim to the title of Modernist as any of his contemporaries: he provides us with a hyper-reality via a unique, non-straightforward narrative structure.
So this is a great book, and its star rating is possibly suffering because it鈥檚 coming on the heels of a definitively 5-star read. The characterization is, for the most part, fantastic. The story is told from various points of view, usually in two- or three-page chapters. I鈥檇 say about ten characters help to tell the story, but our primary narrator is Darl (some spoilers to follow). Darl is the second eldest son of the story鈥檚 plot-mover, Addie Bundren, and his character arc is probably the one thing keeping this novel out of 鈥榤asterpiece鈥� territory for me. He鈥檚 described as someone intuitive and special, a bit of an oddball but a nice, thoughtful kid. His own narration backs this up; he鈥檚 the wise one, the amateur philosopher, and his narration is filled with difficult words and surprisingly correct grammar. But something happens with him toward the end of the book that didn鈥檛 quite work for me. Faulkner鈥檚 main philosophical exploration in this novel is relativity with regard to both morals and sanity, and Darl does something that confirms the others鈥� suspicions that he鈥檚 a little bit crazy. But given the absurdity of the situation the characters are in, Darl鈥檚 action actually makes some good sense. From a certain point of view, it鈥檚 perfectly understandable. So far, so good鈥擟amus would have been really jealous of this set up. Only one character, Darl鈥檚 older brother Cash, recognizes that Darl may not actually be crazy:
Sometimes I aint so sho who鈥檚 got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint鈥t鈥檚 like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it鈥檚 the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.
Exactly. But then, inexplicably, Faulkner decides that Darl is, in fact, insane: in the course of Darl鈥檚 final narration, he exhibits previously unseen schizophrenic behavior, complete with nonsensical ramblings addressing himself in the third person. What? Faulkner should have left him the way he was, as the guy who has almost too much sense and insight and therefore gets funny looks from all the 鈥榥ormal鈥� people. But this criticism arises from the contents of a two-page chapter, and fortunately it can be excised with a little mental effort. There鈥檚 also the possibility that some crucial hints in the book escaped me. Because of Faulkner鈥檚 storytelling style, in which many things only make sense later, it鈥檚 likely that I missed the significance of many comments, thoughts, and glances along the way. As I mentioned in a review for The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner is ripe for rereads because it鈥檚 inevitable that seeming irrelevancies and ambiguous character interactions from the first read will take on new meanings when you鈥檙e equipped with knowledge of the whole story. Unfortunately, I鈥檝e never been one of those readers who can go right back to the beginning of a book after finishing it.
One of the fascinating things about this novel is that it can be read either as a tragedy or as a black comedy (or, therefore, as a tragicomedy). The case for the former is rather straightforward considering the events of the book, particularly with regard to Darl. The bleak comedic aspect comes from the story鈥檚 McGuffin鈥攖o fulfill the above-mentioned Addie Bundren鈥檚 last wish of being buried in her family鈥檚 hometown鈥攚hich becomes increasingly absurd as it proves logistically improbable to carry out. All manner of misfortunes are incurred as a result of her spineless husband鈥檚 uncharacteristic firmness in fulfilling this wish, a resolve that鈥檚 made even more unbefuckinglievably absurd by the book鈥檚 final five words. It鈥檚 all too tragic for laughs, but it鈥檚 pure genius.
I鈥檝e read a few confusing novels, and no writer seems to use this method of disorientation so deliberately and so effectively as a ploy. Faulkner puts us at his mercy. He鈥檚 the one calling the shots, and we have to play by his rules. More than anything else, I think it's this aspect that can make people uneasy or unhappy with his works. But really it's a gift, leaving us with the rawness and incomprehensibility of life, which only begin to make sense in hindsight through functions of memory and our desire to find order and purpose. This, along with stream of consciousness, is what gives Faulkner as much of a claim to the title of Modernist as any of his contemporaries: he provides us with a hyper-reality via a unique, non-straightforward narrative structure.
So this is a great book, and its star rating is possibly suffering because it鈥檚 coming on the heels of a definitively 5-star read. The characterization is, for the most part, fantastic. The story is told from various points of view, usually in two- or three-page chapters. I鈥檇 say about ten characters help to tell the story, but our primary narrator is Darl (some spoilers to follow). Darl is the second eldest son of the story鈥檚 plot-mover, Addie Bundren, and his character arc is probably the one thing keeping this novel out of 鈥榤asterpiece鈥� territory for me. He鈥檚 described as someone intuitive and special, a bit of an oddball but a nice, thoughtful kid. His own narration backs this up; he鈥檚 the wise one, the amateur philosopher, and his narration is filled with difficult words and surprisingly correct grammar. But something happens with him toward the end of the book that didn鈥檛 quite work for me. Faulkner鈥檚 main philosophical exploration in this novel is relativity with regard to both morals and sanity, and Darl does something that confirms the others鈥� suspicions that he鈥檚 a little bit crazy. But given the absurdity of the situation the characters are in, Darl鈥檚 action actually makes some good sense. From a certain point of view, it鈥檚 perfectly understandable. So far, so good鈥擟amus would have been really jealous of this set up. Only one character, Darl鈥檚 older brother Cash, recognizes that Darl may not actually be crazy:
Sometimes I aint so sho who鈥檚 got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint鈥t鈥檚 like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it鈥檚 the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.
Exactly. But then, inexplicably, Faulkner decides that Darl is, in fact, insane: in the course of Darl鈥檚 final narration, he exhibits previously unseen schizophrenic behavior, complete with nonsensical ramblings addressing himself in the third person. What? Faulkner should have left him the way he was, as the guy who has almost too much sense and insight and therefore gets funny looks from all the 鈥榥ormal鈥� people. But this criticism arises from the contents of a two-page chapter, and fortunately it can be excised with a little mental effort. There鈥檚 also the possibility that some crucial hints in the book escaped me. Because of Faulkner鈥檚 storytelling style, in which many things only make sense later, it鈥檚 likely that I missed the significance of many comments, thoughts, and glances along the way. As I mentioned in a review for The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner is ripe for rereads because it鈥檚 inevitable that seeming irrelevancies and ambiguous character interactions from the first read will take on new meanings when you鈥檙e equipped with knowledge of the whole story. Unfortunately, I鈥檝e never been one of those readers who can go right back to the beginning of a book after finishing it.
One of the fascinating things about this novel is that it can be read either as a tragedy or as a black comedy (or, therefore, as a tragicomedy). The case for the former is rather straightforward considering the events of the book, particularly with regard to Darl. The bleak comedic aspect comes from the story鈥檚 McGuffin鈥攖o fulfill the above-mentioned Addie Bundren鈥檚 last wish of being buried in her family鈥檚 hometown鈥攚hich becomes increasingly absurd as it proves logistically improbable to carry out. All manner of misfortunes are incurred as a result of her spineless husband鈥檚 uncharacteristic firmness in fulfilling this wish, a resolve that鈥檚 made even more unbefuckinglievably absurd by the book鈥檚 final five words. It鈥檚 all too tragic for laughs, but it鈥檚 pure genius.
May 19, 2014
I am feeling totally inadequate to the task of reviewing this book. It's only the second Faulkner I've read, and while I enjoyed Absalom, Absalom, it didn't quite utterly astound me the way this one did.
I was expecting the run-on sentences and outright rejection of periods that I found in the first book. Instead, I found short little chapters, and voices that spoke in terse sentences that only hinted at what lay beneath.
Note: The rest of this review has been withdrawn due to the recent changes in 欧宝娱乐 policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to this decision here.
In the meantime, you can read the entire review at
I was expecting the run-on sentences and outright rejection of periods that I found in the first book. Instead, I found short little chapters, and voices that spoke in terse sentences that only hinted at what lay beneath.
Note: The rest of this review has been withdrawn due to the recent changes in 欧宝娱乐 policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to this decision here.
In the meantime, you can read the entire review at
May 4, 2016
賴賲賴 "禺卮賲 賵 賴蹖丕賴賵" 乇賵 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 丕孬乇 丕氐賱蹖 賵蹖賱蹖丕賲 賮丕讴賳乇 丨爻丕亘 賲蹖 讴賳賳. 賵賱蹖 亘卮禺氐賴貙 丕夭 丕蹖賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺蹖賱蹖 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕夭 禺卮賲 賵 賴蹖丕賴賵 賱匕鬲 亘乇丿賲. 卮蹖賵賴 蹖 乇賵丕蹖鬲貙 亘丕 鬲讴賴 倬丕乇賴 賴丕蹖 匕賴賳蹖 丕賮乇丕丿 賲禺鬲賱賮 讴賴 诏丕賴 亘丕蹖丿 鬲賱丕卮 賲蹖 讴乇丿蹖 鬲丕 亘賮賴賲蹖 乇丕賵蹖 讴蹖賴 賵 趩賴 丕鬲賮丕賯蹖 丿丕乇賴 賲蹖賮鬲賴貙 禺蹖賱蹖 亘賴鬲乇 丕夭 鬲讴 诏賵蹖蹖 胤賵賱丕賳蹖 賵 讴賲丕亘蹖卮 丨賵氐賱賴 爻乇 亘乇 亘賳噩蹖 毓賯亘 賲丕賳丿賴 賵 讴賵卅賳鬲蹖賳 乇賵丕賳 倬乇蹖卮 亘賵丿. 鬲賵蹖 賴乇 丿賵 乇賲丕賳貙 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 丌丿賲 乇賵 亘賴 蹖賴 亘丕夭蹖 丿毓賵鬲 賲蹖讴賳賴: "丕诏賴 诏賮鬲蹖 趩蹖 丿丕乇賲 賲蹖诏賲責" 賵 鬲賵蹖 丕蹖賳 乇賲丕賳貙 丕蹖賳 亘丕夭蹖 賴蹖噩丕賳 丕賳诏蹖夭鬲乇賴 賵 丌丿賲 丕賳诏蹖夭賴 蹖 亘蹖卮鬲乇蹖 亘乇丕蹖 丨賱賾 丕蹖賳 倬丕夭賱 丿丕乇賴.
賵 鬲乇噩賲賴貙 鬲乇噩賲賴貙 趩蹖 亘诏賲 丕夭 鬲乇噩賲賴責
賵 鬲乇噩賲賴貙 鬲乇噩賲賴貙 趩蹖 亘诏賲 丕夭 鬲乇噩賲賴責
June 25, 2023
Ufff, es Faulkner, a ver qui茅n es el guapo que dice que 鈥淢ientras agonizo鈥� es una novela fallida鈥� pues a ver, yo mismo, qu茅 leches, aunque no quiero d谩rmelas de guapo, aun pudiendo, lo digo (al menos en base a la traducci贸n que he le铆do, que vaya usted a saber).
Me explico. No sabiendo que la novela es de Faulkner ni d贸nde se sit煤an los hechos, si a m铆 alguien me viene y me cuenta el argumento, inmediatamente pienso en una tragicomedia negra negr铆sima muy al estilo de Berlanga, y ojal谩 este hubiera sido el caso y el tono, pero no, es Faulkner, y creo que no era el escritor adecuado para contar esta historia. Qu茅 le vamos a hacer, no pasa nada, parafraseando al propio Faulkner:
鈥淒ios sabe ver dentro de los corazones. Si es voluntad suya que no pensemos todos igual acerca de su novela, no soy yo qui茅n para discutir los divinos designios.鈥�Una familia, cumpliendo a rega帽adientes el deseo de la madre de ser enterrada en su pueblo natal (quiere yacer lo m谩s lejos posible de su marido y sus hijos), emprende el viaje en un carro destartalado a cuestas con el ata煤d que durante d铆as el hijo ha construido bajo la vigilante mirada de su madre moribunda. El viaje y sus grotescas y accidentadas peripecias mientras transportan el ata煤d cada vez m谩s pestilente ser谩n la novela. El resultado, la venganza de una mujer por la vida que le dio su marido.
鈥淪oy un elegido de Dios, pues 脡l castiga a aquel a quien 脡l ama. Pero que me aspen si es que 脡l no ha escogido, por lo que se ve, una manera harto extra帽a de demostrar su amor.鈥�Ya me dir谩n ustedes si un escritor mucho m谩s adecuado para contar esta historia no habr铆a sido Erskine Caldwell, que adem谩s era muy admirado por el propio Faulkner. Quienes hayan le铆do sus obras, que desde aqu铆 recomiendo, sabr谩n a qu茅 me refiero. Caldwell, con la misma mala leche que se estil贸 Faulkner al escribir su obra, aunque seguramente con una menor exhibici贸n formal y quiz谩s con una estructura m谩s convencional (la novela la forman cincuenta y nueve cap铆tulos narrados por quince personajes distintos, incluida la madre muerta, en una especie de mon贸logo interior) pero con much铆sima m谩s gracia y algo m谩s de cari帽o hacia sus personajes, habr铆a construido una fant谩stica comedia, una triste comedia, y un retrato insuperable de estos campesinos pobres e ignorantes, ingenuos, mezquinos y ego铆stas que forman la familia protagonista.
December 19, 2020
丕賵賱蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘蹖 讴賴 丕夭 賮丕讴賳乇 禺賵賳丿賲 蹖讴 诏賱 爻乇禺 亘乇丕蹖 丕賲蹖賱蹖 亘賵丿 讴賴 賲鬲丕爻賮丕賳賴 賳氐賮賴 乇賴丕卮 讴乇丿賲 賵 丿賵爻鬲 丿丕乇賲 丿賵亘丕乇賴 亘乇賲 爻乇丕睾卮! 讴鬲丕亘 亘毓丿蹖 诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 亘賵丿 讴賴 禺蹖賱蹖 丿賵爻鬲卮 丿丕乇賲 賵 丿賵亘丕乇 賴賲 禺賵賳丿賲 賵 亘賴 賳馗乇賲 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 爻丕丿賴鈥屫臂屬� 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й� 賮丕讴賳乇 亘賴 賱丨丕馗 賮乇賲 賵 爻亘讴 賴爻鬲. 丕賱亘鬲賴 爻亘讴 讴鬲丕亘 賲孬賱 禺卮賲鈥� 賵 賴蹖丕賴賵 爻蹖丕賱 匕賴賳賴 賵賱蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賳卮 禺蹖賱蹖 乇丕丨鬲鈥屫辟� 讴賴 卮丕蹖丿 毓賱鬲卮 賵噩賵丿 賮氐賱鈥屬囏й� 賲鬲毓毓丿 亘丕卮賴. 讴鬲丕亘 亘賴 胤賵乇 賲賵丕夭蹖 丿乇 賮氐賱鈥屬囏й� 賲鬲毓丿丿 丕夭 夭亘丕賳 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 乇賵丕蹖鬲 賲蹖卮賴. 亘賴 胤乇夭 卮诏賮鬲鈥屫з嗂屫槽� 賲蹖鈥屫堎嗃屫� 亘丕 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 丕乇鬲亘丕胤 亘乇賯乇丕乇 讴賳蹖丿 賵 丨鬲蹖 丿賵爻鬲卮賵賳 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮蹖丿. 丕賳爻蹖 倬丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴鈥屫池� 賵 丕丿蹖 賲丕丿乇 乇賳噩鈥屭┴篡屫� 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 讴賴 丕夭 丿賳蹖丕 賲蹖鈥屫辟�. 賴乇 讴爻蹖 丕夭 丿蹖丿 禺賵丿卮 乇丕賵蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖 丕蹖賳 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 賵 丕蹖賳讴賴 趩诏賵賳賴 賯乇丕乇賴 噩賳丕夭賴 丕丿蹖 乇賵 丕夭 蹖讴 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 讴賴 倬賱 亘爻蹖丕乇 賱睾夭賳丿賴鈥屫й� 丿丕乇賴 毓亘賵乇 亘丿賴賳丿 賵 丿乇 胤蹖 丌賳貙 噩乇蹖丕賳丕鬲 丿蹖诏賴鈥屫й� 賴賲 倬蹖卮 賲蹖丕丿.賵乇丿賲賳貙 噩賵卅賱貙 丿丕乇賱 丕夭 賮乇夭賳丿丕賳 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 賴爻鬲賳丿. 賵乇丿賲賳 毓賯亘鈥屬呚з嗀� 匕賴賳蹖鈥屫池� 賵 賯爻賲鬲鈥屬囏й� 賲乇亘賵胤 亘賴卮 賯賱亘 丌丿賲 乇賵 賲蹖賱乇夭賵賳賴.丨鬲蹖 讴賻卮 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 倬爻乇丕賳 爻丕夭賳丿賴鈥屰� 鬲丕亘賵鬲貙 禺丕賳賲 鬲賱 賴賲爻丕蹖賴貙 賵蹖鬲賮蹖賱丿 讴卮蹖卮 賵... 丿乇 乇賵丕蹖鬲 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 賵 丨丕賱 賵 乇賵夭 丕蹖賳 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 賳賯卮 丿丕乇賳丿. 鬲毓丿丿 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏� 丕氐賱丕 禺爻鬲賴鈥屭┵嗁嗀� 賵 丌夭丕乇丿賴賳丿賴 賳蹖爻鬲. 爻亘讴 讴鬲丕亘 噩乇蹖丕賳 爻蹖丕賱 匕賴賳 丕爻鬲 賵 乇賲丕賳蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丕蹖賳 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴鈥屰� 丌賲乇蹖讴丕蹖蹖 亘賴 禺丕胤乇卮 亘乇賳丿賴鈥屰� 噩丕蹖夭賴 賳賵亘賱 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 卮丿賴 賵 亘乇丕蹖 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 亘丕乇 丿乇 爻丕賱 郾酃鄢郯 丿乇 丌賲乇蹖讴丕 趩丕倬 卮丿賴. 毓賳賵丕賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘乇诏乇賮鬲賴 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘 卮卮賲 丕丿蹖爻賴 丕孬乇 賴賵賲乇賴 讴賴 丿乇 丌賳 丌诏丕賲賲賳賵賳 禺胤丕亘 亘賴 丕賵丿蹖爻卅賵爻 噩賲賱賴 毓賳賵丕賳 讴鬲丕亘 蹖毓賳蹖 芦As I Lay Dying禄 乇丕 亘賴 讴丕乇 賲蹖鈥屫ㄘ必�.賲蹖丿賵賳賲 讴賴 亘禺丕胤乇 卮禺氐蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 爻丕丿賴 賵 亘蹖鈥屫①勜й屫� 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 亘丕夭賴賲 爻乇丕睾卮 賲蹖乇賲.
September 14, 2016
Unmistakingly Faulkner. A unique writing style combined with a sad and haunting story. You may read Faulkner and say when you are finished, "I didn't like that", but you will never forget what you read.
Reread Sept. 2016
Reread Sept. 2016
June 8, 2023
诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 賳賵卮鬲賴 賵蹖賱蹖丕賲 賮丕讴賳乇 乇丕 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 蹖丕 乇賳噩 賳丕賲賴 丕蹖 亘丕蹖丿 丿丕賳爻鬲 讴賴 鬲賵氐蹖賮 丌賳 亘賴 乇丕丨鬲蹖 賲賲讴賳 賳蹖爻鬲 . 賮丕讴賳乇 胤蹖賮 夭蹖丕丿蹖 丕夭 丕丨爻丕爻丕鬲 丌丿賲蹖 賲丕賳賳丿 貙 丿乇丿 賵 乇賳噩 貙 賳丕丿丕賳蹖 賵 噩賴賱 貙 禺賵丿禺賵丕賴蹖 貙 禺卮賵賳鬲 賵 丕丨爻丕爻 诏賳丕賴 乇丕 丿乇 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺賵丿 诏賳噩丕賳丿賴 . 诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 59 賮氐賱 賵 15 乇丕賵蹖 丿丕乇丿 讴賴 丿爻鬲丕賳 乇丕 丕夭 丿蹖丿诏丕賴 禺賵丿 鬲毓乇蹖賮 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 . 賴乇 賮氐賱 賵 賴乇 乇賵丕蹖鬲 賲丕賳賳丿 賯胤毓賴 丕蹖 丕夭 倬丕夭賱 丕爻鬲 讴賴 诏乇趩賴 丿乇 丌禺乇 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 鬲氐賵蹖乇 賵丕囟丨 鬲乇蹖 丕夭 倬丕夭賱 亘乇丕蹖 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 鬲乇爻蹖賲 卮丿賴 丕賲丕 亘乇禺蹖 賯胤毓丕鬲 丌賳 鬲丕 倬丕蹖丕賳 讴鬲丕亘 賴賲 趩賳丕賳 鬲丕乇蹖讴 賵 賲毓賲丕 亘丕賯蹖 賲蹖 賲丕賳賳丿 .
賮丕讴賳乇 亘丿賵賳 賴蹖趩 賲賯丿賲賴 丕蹖 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 卮乇賵毓 賲蹖 讴賳丿 貙 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 讴鬲丕亘 丕賵 亘丿賵賳 賴蹖趩 倬蹖卮 诏賮鬲丕乇 鬲賳賴丕 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 賵 乇賵丕蹖鬲 禺賵丿 乇丕 賲蹖 诏賵蹖賳丿 . 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲蹖 乇爻丿 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賯氐丿蹖 賴賲 亘乇丕蹖 賲毓乇賮蹖 丕賮乇丕丿 賳丿丕卮鬲賴 賵 鬲賳賴丕 賲蹖 禺賵丕賴丿 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘賴 倬蹖卮 亘亘乇丿 . 丕夭丕蹖賳 乇賵 夭丕賵蹖賴 丿蹖丿 丕賮乇丕丿 賲禺鬲賱賮 丕夭 乇禺丿丕丿蹖 蹖讴爻丕賳 貙 诏丕賴蹖 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 賵 诏丕賴蹖 賴賲 鬲丕 丕賳丿丕夭賴 丕蹖 蹖讴爻丕賳 丕爻鬲 . 卮丕蹖丿 賴丿賮 讴賱蹖 賮丕讴賳乇 乇丕 丕夭 鬲毓丿丿 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 亘鬲賵丕賳 丕蹖噩丕丿 丕亘賴丕賲 賵 丨爻 鬲乇丿蹖丿 賵 毓丿賲 賯胤毓蹖鬲 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 賴賲 趩賳蹖賳 胤乇丨 賴丕蹖 爻丕丿賴 丕蹖 賴賲 讴賴 丕夭丕蹖賳 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 讴卮蹖丿賴 卮丿賴 亘賴 噩丕蹖 卮賳丕爻丕賳丿賳 丌賳丕賳 貙 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕亘賴丕賲 丕蹖噩丕丿 賲蹖 讴賳丿 .
爻賮乇賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 爻賮乇蹖 爻禺鬲 賵 胤丕賯鬲 賮乇爻丕 丿乇 賲賳胤賯賴 丕蹖 丿乇 丕胤乇丕賮 卮賴乇 禺蹖丕賱蹖 蹖賵讴賳丕倬丕鬲丕賵賮丕 乇丕 賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 丕爻丕爻 賵 卮丕賱賵丿賴 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 丿丕賳爻鬲 貙 丌賳趩賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 爻賮乇 賴丿賮 賲蹖 丿賴丿 丕噩乇丕 讴乇丿賳 禺賵丕爻鬲賴 賵 賵氐蹖鬲 賲丕丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 丕丿蹖 亘丕賳丿乇賳 亘乇丕蹖 丿賮賳 卮丿賳 丿乇 卮賴乇 丕噩丿丕丿蹖 噩賮乇爻賵賳 丕爻鬲 賵 亘賴 丕蹖賳 诏賵賳賴 爻賮乇 爻禺鬲 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 亘賴 噩賮乇爻賵賳 卮乇賵毓 賲蹖 卮賵丿 .
丕诏乇 趩賴 爻蹖賱 賵 亘丕乇丕賳 賵 丌鬲卮 爻賮乇 丌賳丕賳 乇丕 鬲賴丿蹖丿 賵 噩丕賳 丌賳 賴丕 乇丕 亘丕乇賴丕 亘賴 禺胤乇 賲蹖 丕賳丿丕夭丿 丕賲丕 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 亘賵賳丿乇賳 爻乇丕賳噩丕賲 賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 亘丕 鬲丨賲賱 賲氐蹖亘鬲 賴丕蹖 賲禺鬲賱賮 賵馗蹖賮賴 賵 賵氐蹖鬲 賲丕丿乇 乇丕 丕賳噩丕賲 賲蹖 丿賴賳丿 賵 丌賲丕丿賴 蹖乇诏卮鬲 亘賴 乇賵爻鬲丕 禺賵丿 賲蹖 卮賵賳丿 .
丕賲丕 賴丿賮 賮丕讴賳乇 乇丕 賳亘丕蹖丿 亘蹖丕賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳蹖 賴蹖噩丕賳 丕賳诏蹖夭 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 爻賮乇 倬乇 丿乇丿 亘賵賳丿乇賳 賴丕 爻亘亘 卮丿賴 鬲丕 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賳诏丕賴蹖 丕賳鬲賯丕丿蹖 亘賴 賮乇賴賳诏 丨丕讴賲 亘乇 噩賳賵亘 丌賲乇蹖讴丕 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿 .
丿乇爻乇夭賲蹖賳 讴賵乇賴丕 貨 丕賳爻丕賳 蹖讴 趩卮賲 倬丕丿卮丕賴 丕爻鬲 責
丨賲丕賯鬲 賵 爻丕丿诏蹖 亘賵賳丿乇賳 賴丕 亘賴 噩賳賵賳 胤毓賳賴 賲蹖 夭賳丿 貙 丌賳賴丕 丿賳 讴蹖卮賵鬲 賵丕乇 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖 賵丕乇丿 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 爻蹖賱丕亘蹖 賲蹖 卮賵賳丿 讴賴 卮丕賳爻蹖 亘乇丕蹖 賳噩丕鬲 賵 乇賴丕蹖蹖 賳丿丕乇賳丿 . 亘賵蹖 诏賳丿 噩賳丕夭賴 賲鬲毓賮賳 貙 賱丕卮禺賵乇賴丕 賵 讴乇讴爻 賴丕 乇丕 丿賳亘丕賱 诏丕乇蹖 賯乇丕囟賴 丌賳賴丕 讴乇丿賴 賵 丌丿賲蹖丕賳 乇丕 丕夭 丌賳賴丕 賮乇丕乇蹖 丿丕丿賴 丕爻鬲 . 乇賵亘乇賵 卮丿賳 倬丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 丕賳爻蹖 亘丕賳丿乇賳 亘丕 倬丕蹖 卮讴爻鬲賴 倬爻乇 禺賵丿 貙 讴賻卮 賵 鬲氐賲蹖賲 丕賵 亘乇丕蹖 賯乇丕乇 丿丕丿賳 爻蹖賲丕賳 乇賵蹖 倬丕蹖 丕賵 賵 爻讴賵鬲 賴賲诏丕賳蹖 丌賳丕賳 賵 乇囟丕蹖鬲 讴賻卮 亘乇丕蹖 丕蹖賳 讴丕乇 丿乇 毓蹖賳 賲囟丨讴 亘賵丿賳 貙 賮丕噩毓賴 賲蹖 丌賮乇蹖賳丿 .
丿乇 賲蹖丕賳 丕蹖賳 噩賲毓 賳丕亘蹖賳丕 貙 丿丕乇賱 乇丕 亘丕蹖丿 丕賳爻丕賳 蹖讴 趩卮賲 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 丿丕乇賱 鬲賳賴丕 讴爻蹖 丕蹖爻鬲 讴賴 亘賴 亘蹖 賴丿賮 賵 倬賵趩 亘乇丿賳 丕蹖賳 爻賮乇 倬蹖 亘乇丿賴 . 丕賵 賮賴賲蹖丿賴 讴賴 禺賵丕爻鬲賴 賲丕丿乇 賵 丕氐乇丕乇 倬丿乇 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 睾蹖乇 賲賳胤賯蹖 亘賱讴賴 禺胤乇賳丕讴 賵 賲乇诏亘丕乇 丕爻鬲 . 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賲蹖 讴賵卮丿 鬲丕 丕夭 卮乇 噩賳丕夭賴 乇丕丨鬲 卮賵丿 . 丿丕乇賱 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕 蹖讴 賳诏丕賴 亘賴 乇丕夭 丿蹖賵蹖 丿賱 倬蹖 賲蹖 亘乇丿 . 丕賲丕 丕賵 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩賲毓 賮乇噩丕賲 禺賵亘蹖 賳禺賵丕賴丿 丿丕卮鬲 .
噩賲毓 趩蹖夭 亘丕禺鬲诏丕賳
爻賮乇 亘賴 噩賮乇爻賵賳 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 亘賵賳丿乇賳 賴丕 乇丕 亘賴 賲噩賲賵毓賴 丕蹖 丕夭 亘丕夭賳丿诏丕賳 鬲亘丿蹖賱 讴乇丿賴 貙 蹖讴蹖 丕爻亘 禺賵丿 乇丕 丕夭 丿爻鬲 丿丕丿賴 貙 蹖讴蹖 倬丕蹖 爻丕賱賲卮 乇丕 貙 丕毓氐丕亘 賵 乇賵丕賳 丿蹖诏乇蹖 亘賴 賮賳丕 乇賮鬲賴 貙 丨鬲蹖 鬲丕亘賵鬲 賵 噩賳丕夭賴 賲丕丿乇 賴賲 丌爻蹖亘 丿蹖丿賴 . 丕賲丕 丕賳爻蹖 亘丕賳丿乇賳 倬丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 讴賴 卮亘丕賴鬲 趩卮賲诏蹖乇蹖 亘賴 丕爻賲丕毓蹖賱 貙 卮禺氐蹖鬲 倬丿乇 丿乇 亘乇丕丿乇丕賳 賱蹖賱丕 乇丕 丿丕乇丿 乇丕 亘丕蹖丿 亘乇賳丿賴 讴丕賲賱 丕蹖賳 賲丕乇丕鬲賳 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 丕夭 丌賳 噩丕 讴賴 丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 丕賵 賱蹖賱丕蹖蹖 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕乇丿 丕賵 丿乇 倬丕蹖丕賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘丕 賳蹖卮蹖 亘丕夭 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 亘賴 丿蹖诏乇 丕賮乇丕丿 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 貙 亘賱讴賴 亘賴 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 賴賲 賲蹖 禺賳丿丿 鬲丕 亘乇丿 禺賵丿 乇丕 讴丕賲賱 讴賳丿 .
亘丕 賵噩賵丿 丌賳讴賴 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕夭 90 爻丕賱 丕夭 丕賳鬲卮丕乇 诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 诏匕卮鬲賴 丕賲丕 讴鬲丕亘 賮丕讴賳乇 賴賲 趩賳丕賳 鬲丕夭賴 貙 噩丿蹖丿 賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 丕賳賯賱丕亘蹖 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲蹖 乇爻丿 . 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 诏乇趩賴 爻丕丿賴 賵 乇賵丕賳 亘蹖丕賳 讴乇丿賴 丕賲丕 讴鬲丕亘 丕賵 乇丕 亘賴 爻亘亘 噩乇蹖丕賳 爻蹖丕賱 匕賴賳 賵 賴賲蹖賳 胤賵乇 睾蹖乇 賯丕亘賱 丕毓鬲賲丕丿 亘賵丿賳 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘丕蹖丿 讴丕賲賱丕 爻禺鬲 禺賵丕賳 貙 倬蹖趩蹖丿賴 賵 丿卮賵丕乇賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 卮丕賴讴丕乇賴丕蹖 亘賴 蹖丕丿 賲丕賳丿賳蹖 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 噩賴丕賳 丿丕賳爻鬲 .
賮丕讴賳乇 亘丿賵賳 賴蹖趩 賲賯丿賲賴 丕蹖 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 卮乇賵毓 賲蹖 讴賳丿 貙 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 讴鬲丕亘 丕賵 亘丿賵賳 賴蹖趩 倬蹖卮 诏賮鬲丕乇 鬲賳賴丕 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 賵 乇賵丕蹖鬲 禺賵丿 乇丕 賲蹖 诏賵蹖賳丿 . 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲蹖 乇爻丿 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賯氐丿蹖 賴賲 亘乇丕蹖 賲毓乇賮蹖 丕賮乇丕丿 賳丿丕卮鬲賴 賵 鬲賳賴丕 賲蹖 禺賵丕賴丿 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘賴 倬蹖卮 亘亘乇丿 . 丕夭丕蹖賳 乇賵 夭丕賵蹖賴 丿蹖丿 丕賮乇丕丿 賲禺鬲賱賮 丕夭 乇禺丿丕丿蹖 蹖讴爻丕賳 貙 诏丕賴蹖 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 賵 诏丕賴蹖 賴賲 鬲丕 丕賳丿丕夭賴 丕蹖 蹖讴爻丕賳 丕爻鬲 . 卮丕蹖丿 賴丿賮 讴賱蹖 賮丕讴賳乇 乇丕 丕夭 鬲毓丿丿 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 亘鬲賵丕賳 丕蹖噩丕丿 丕亘賴丕賲 賵 丨爻 鬲乇丿蹖丿 賵 毓丿賲 賯胤毓蹖鬲 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 賴賲 趩賳蹖賳 胤乇丨 賴丕蹖 爻丕丿賴 丕蹖 賴賲 讴賴 丕夭丕蹖賳 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 讴卮蹖丿賴 卮丿賴 亘賴 噩丕蹖 卮賳丕爻丕賳丿賳 丌賳丕賳 貙 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕亘賴丕賲 丕蹖噩丕丿 賲蹖 讴賳丿 .
爻賮乇賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 爻賮乇蹖 爻禺鬲 賵 胤丕賯鬲 賮乇爻丕 丿乇 賲賳胤賯賴 丕蹖 丿乇 丕胤乇丕賮 卮賴乇 禺蹖丕賱蹖 蹖賵讴賳丕倬丕鬲丕賵賮丕 乇丕 賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 丕爻丕爻 賵 卮丕賱賵丿賴 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 丿丕賳爻鬲 貙 丌賳趩賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 爻賮乇 賴丿賮 賲蹖 丿賴丿 丕噩乇丕 讴乇丿賳 禺賵丕爻鬲賴 賵 賵氐蹖鬲 賲丕丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 丕丿蹖 亘丕賳丿乇賳 亘乇丕蹖 丿賮賳 卮丿賳 丿乇 卮賴乇 丕噩丿丕丿蹖 噩賮乇爻賵賳 丕爻鬲 賵 亘賴 丕蹖賳 诏賵賳賴 爻賮乇 爻禺鬲 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 亘賴 噩賮乇爻賵賳 卮乇賵毓 賲蹖 卮賵丿 .
丕诏乇 趩賴 爻蹖賱 賵 亘丕乇丕賳 賵 丌鬲卮 爻賮乇 丌賳丕賳 乇丕 鬲賴丿蹖丿 賵 噩丕賳 丌賳 賴丕 乇丕 亘丕乇賴丕 亘賴 禺胤乇 賲蹖 丕賳丿丕夭丿 丕賲丕 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 亘賵賳丿乇賳 爻乇丕賳噩丕賲 賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 亘丕 鬲丨賲賱 賲氐蹖亘鬲 賴丕蹖 賲禺鬲賱賮 賵馗蹖賮賴 賵 賵氐蹖鬲 賲丕丿乇 乇丕 丕賳噩丕賲 賲蹖 丿賴賳丿 賵 丌賲丕丿賴 蹖乇诏卮鬲 亘賴 乇賵爻鬲丕 禺賵丿 賲蹖 卮賵賳丿 .
丕賲丕 賴丿賮 賮丕讴賳乇 乇丕 賳亘丕蹖丿 亘蹖丕賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳蹖 賴蹖噩丕賳 丕賳诏蹖夭 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 爻賮乇 倬乇 丿乇丿 亘賵賳丿乇賳 賴丕 爻亘亘 卮丿賴 鬲丕 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賳诏丕賴蹖 丕賳鬲賯丕丿蹖 亘賴 賮乇賴賳诏 丨丕讴賲 亘乇 噩賳賵亘 丌賲乇蹖讴丕 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿 .
丿乇爻乇夭賲蹖賳 讴賵乇賴丕 貨 丕賳爻丕賳 蹖讴 趩卮賲 倬丕丿卮丕賴 丕爻鬲 責
丨賲丕賯鬲 賵 爻丕丿诏蹖 亘賵賳丿乇賳 賴丕 亘賴 噩賳賵賳 胤毓賳賴 賲蹖 夭賳丿 貙 丌賳賴丕 丿賳 讴蹖卮賵鬲 賵丕乇 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖 賵丕乇丿 乇賵丿禺丕賳賴 爻蹖賱丕亘蹖 賲蹖 卮賵賳丿 讴賴 卮丕賳爻蹖 亘乇丕蹖 賳噩丕鬲 賵 乇賴丕蹖蹖 賳丿丕乇賳丿 . 亘賵蹖 诏賳丿 噩賳丕夭賴 賲鬲毓賮賳 貙 賱丕卮禺賵乇賴丕 賵 讴乇讴爻 賴丕 乇丕 丿賳亘丕賱 诏丕乇蹖 賯乇丕囟賴 丌賳賴丕 讴乇丿賴 賵 丌丿賲蹖丕賳 乇丕 丕夭 丌賳賴丕 賮乇丕乇蹖 丿丕丿賴 丕爻鬲 . 乇賵亘乇賵 卮丿賳 倬丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 丕賳爻蹖 亘丕賳丿乇賳 亘丕 倬丕蹖 卮讴爻鬲賴 倬爻乇 禺賵丿 貙 讴賻卮 賵 鬲氐賲蹖賲 丕賵 亘乇丕蹖 賯乇丕乇 丿丕丿賳 爻蹖賲丕賳 乇賵蹖 倬丕蹖 丕賵 賵 爻讴賵鬲 賴賲诏丕賳蹖 丌賳丕賳 賵 乇囟丕蹖鬲 讴賻卮 亘乇丕蹖 丕蹖賳 讴丕乇 丿乇 毓蹖賳 賲囟丨讴 亘賵丿賳 貙 賮丕噩毓賴 賲蹖 丌賮乇蹖賳丿 .
丿乇 賲蹖丕賳 丕蹖賳 噩賲毓 賳丕亘蹖賳丕 貙 丿丕乇賱 乇丕 亘丕蹖丿 丕賳爻丕賳 蹖讴 趩卮賲 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 丿丕乇賱 鬲賳賴丕 讴爻蹖 丕蹖爻鬲 讴賴 亘賴 亘蹖 賴丿賮 賵 倬賵趩 亘乇丿賳 丕蹖賳 爻賮乇 倬蹖 亘乇丿賴 . 丕賵 賮賴賲蹖丿賴 讴賴 禺賵丕爻鬲賴 賲丕丿乇 賵 丕氐乇丕乇 倬丿乇 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 睾蹖乇 賲賳胤賯蹖 亘賱讴賴 禺胤乇賳丕讴 賵 賲乇诏亘丕乇 丕爻鬲 . 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賲蹖 讴賵卮丿 鬲丕 丕夭 卮乇 噩賳丕夭賴 乇丕丨鬲 卮賵丿 . 丿丕乇賱 丕爻鬲 讴賴 亘丕 蹖讴 賳诏丕賴 亘賴 乇丕夭 丿蹖賵蹖 丿賱 倬蹖 賲蹖 亘乇丿 . 丕賲丕 丕賵 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩賲毓 賮乇噩丕賲 禺賵亘蹖 賳禺賵丕賴丿 丿丕卮鬲 .
噩賲毓 趩蹖夭 亘丕禺鬲诏丕賳
爻賮乇 亘賴 噩賮乇爻賵賳 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 亘賵賳丿乇賳 賴丕 乇丕 亘賴 賲噩賲賵毓賴 丕蹖 丕夭 亘丕夭賳丿诏丕賳 鬲亘丿蹖賱 讴乇丿賴 貙 蹖讴蹖 丕爻亘 禺賵丿 乇丕 丕夭 丿爻鬲 丿丕丿賴 貙 蹖讴蹖 倬丕蹖 爻丕賱賲卮 乇丕 貙 丕毓氐丕亘 賵 乇賵丕賳 丿蹖诏乇蹖 亘賴 賮賳丕 乇賮鬲賴 貙 丨鬲蹖 鬲丕亘賵鬲 賵 噩賳丕夭賴 賲丕丿乇 賴賲 丌爻蹖亘 丿蹖丿賴 . 丕賲丕 丕賳爻蹖 亘丕賳丿乇賳 倬丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 讴賴 卮亘丕賴鬲 趩卮賲诏蹖乇蹖 亘賴 丕爻賲丕毓蹖賱 貙 卮禺氐蹖鬲 倬丿乇 丿乇 亘乇丕丿乇丕賳 賱蹖賱丕 乇丕 丿丕乇丿 乇丕 亘丕蹖丿 亘乇賳丿賴 讴丕賲賱 丕蹖賳 賲丕乇丕鬲賳 丿丕賳爻鬲 . 丕夭 丌賳 噩丕 讴賴 丿乇 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 丕賵 賱蹖賱丕蹖蹖 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕乇丿 丕賵 丿乇 倬丕蹖丕賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘丕 賳蹖卮蹖 亘丕夭 賳賴 鬲賳賴丕 亘賴 丿蹖诏乇 丕賮乇丕丿 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴 貙 亘賱讴賴 亘賴 禺賵丕賳賳丿賴 賴賲 賲蹖 禺賳丿丿 鬲丕 亘乇丿 禺賵丿 乇丕 讴丕賲賱 讴賳丿 .
亘丕 賵噩賵丿 丌賳讴賴 亘蹖卮鬲乇 丕夭 90 爻丕賱 丕夭 丕賳鬲卮丕乇 诏賵乇 亘賴 诏賵乇 诏匕卮鬲賴 丕賲丕 讴鬲丕亘 賮丕讴賳乇 賴賲 趩賳丕賳 鬲丕夭賴 貙 噩丿蹖丿 賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 丕賳賯賱丕亘蹖 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲蹖 乇爻丿 . 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 禺賵丿 乇丕 诏乇趩賴 爻丕丿賴 賵 乇賵丕賳 亘蹖丕賳 讴乇丿賴 丕賲丕 讴鬲丕亘 丕賵 乇丕 亘賴 爻亘亘 噩乇蹖丕賳 爻蹖丕賱 匕賴賳 賵 賴賲蹖賳 胤賵乇 睾蹖乇 賯丕亘賱 丕毓鬲賲丕丿 亘賵丿賳 乇丕賵蹖丕賳 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 亘丕蹖丿 讴丕賲賱丕 爻禺鬲 禺賵丕賳 貙 倬蹖趩蹖丿賴 賵 丿卮賵丕乇賵 丕賱亘鬲賴 亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 卮丕賴讴丕乇賴丕蹖 亘賴 蹖丕丿 賲丕賳丿賳蹖 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 噩賴丕賳 丿丕賳爻鬲 .
July 17, 2010
I'm no copyright lawyer, but it seems like Faulkner's estate could have sued the hell out of the makers of National Lampoon's Vacation. There is the obvious corpse-carting similarity, but I can almost hear the familiar refrain of Lindsey Buckingham's "Holiday Road" bleed into the scene of the Bundren's fateful river crossing. (Pre)DMCA violations were definitely afoot, at least in spirit.
This is the book for those who find Faulkner's other well known works to be intimidating. As I Lay Dying delivers all of the point of view shifts and modernist goodness of The Sound and the Fury and Absalom, Absalom but in more palatable, bite-sized chunks. The endless chapters that trap one within the other books in a way that doesn't allow for natural stopping points within the text for bathroom or laundry breaks are eschewed in favor of shorter sections that are each narrated by a member of the Bundren family or else a random, curious onlooker about town. This format also eases the intensity of the typical Faulknerian (i've been waiting to use that term) shift between the action that is occurring and the stream of consciousness interior monologuing that characters in Faulkner novels seem to so enjoy.
The constraints placed on the text make the themes of this book explode with meaning. The sins of the father are visited upon the heads of the children, familial obligation collides with personal agendas, and the immediate sainthood imposed upon those who have passed is examined in a more doubtful light.
Word on the (back cover blurb) street is that Faulkner cranked out this book over a six week period while working twelve hour shifts at a power plant. In my mind this makes him the literary equivalent of that one cheerleader in high school that everyone secretly hated because she seemed so damned perfect.
This is the book for those who find Faulkner's other well known works to be intimidating. As I Lay Dying delivers all of the point of view shifts and modernist goodness of The Sound and the Fury and Absalom, Absalom but in more palatable, bite-sized chunks. The endless chapters that trap one within the other books in a way that doesn't allow for natural stopping points within the text for bathroom or laundry breaks are eschewed in favor of shorter sections that are each narrated by a member of the Bundren family or else a random, curious onlooker about town. This format also eases the intensity of the typical Faulknerian (i've been waiting to use that term) shift between the action that is occurring and the stream of consciousness interior monologuing that characters in Faulkner novels seem to so enjoy.
The constraints placed on the text make the themes of this book explode with meaning. The sins of the father are visited upon the heads of the children, familial obligation collides with personal agendas, and the immediate sainthood imposed upon those who have passed is examined in a more doubtful light.
Word on the (back cover blurb) street is that Faulkner cranked out this book over a six week period while working twelve hour shifts at a power plant. In my mind this makes him the literary equivalent of that one cheerleader in high school that everyone secretly hated because she seemed so damned perfect.
November 12, 2020
One of the finest arguments for resisting syllabi is the freedom to unleash authors at exactly the right time and place for you. Four years past was the right time for me to behold the mighty Sam Beckett. Eight years past was my time in Chancery with Charlie Dickens. Eleven years past was the moment for a bowl of mulligan stew with Gilbie Sorrentino. This year, my excavations have been vast, among the prizes D.H. Lawrence, Henry James, and now, the sizzling Bill Faulkner. Everyone already Faulknerized knows the blisses of this heaven-kissed prose, so allow me merely to recommend this totemic stunner, when you鈥檙e ready.
April 1, 2016
鈥淚 can remember how when I was young I believed Death to be a phenomenon of the body; now I know it to be merely a function of the mind - and that of the minds of the ones who suffer the bereavement. The nihilists say it is the end; the fundamentalists, the beginning; when in reality it is no more than a single tenant or family moving out of a tenement or a town.鈥�
Death brings out the best and the worst in the families. The deceased doesn鈥檛 just escape our reality but changes the way we look at the reality for which it leaves an unfillable void in the wake of the families and the friends. It is difficult for anything to grow around it unless it is forgotten or, somehow, mended. Time, an irrevocable quantity, stays still, while we keep moving in infinite space.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 what they mean by the womb of time: the agony and the despair of spreading bones, the hard girdle in which lie the outraged entrails of events.鈥�
Death does not always bring the truth out but deceives us sometimes by carrying the secret to the grave, leaving the family and friends in a web of deceit. Here is Addie Bundren dying alone, hiding her pride and her broken heart. Sin doesn鈥檛 matter to her. So does salvation. All that whirls around her and ensnares her in this familial life, she believes, are just words to fill the lack. Love, fear, and pride are just empty words to her. However the roots of her disillusionment lie underground, invisible to the human eyes. If someone asks her to pray to god for her sins, she would say
鈥淢y [Her] daily life is an acknowledgment and expiation of my sin.鈥�
Eternity is a fearsome thing to face. Now, Death comes to free her from the misery and other watchful eyes. All through her life she attended to the needs of selfish children and uncaring husband, Anse Bundren. He wanted more children. She gave him more children. But only one belonged to her 鈥� her own boy - Jewel who is the product of her godless association with a Not-All-Too-Holy minister.
There are holes, now in the coffin box inside which Addie plunged into an unwakeable sleep; also, in the lives of the Bundren family. To mend the holes, they embark on a funeral tour to the destined place to bury her, as she wished. As the story is set in the early times, they don鈥檛 have any dull hearse to drive in black suits to the burial grounds, so they took her decaying body in a creaking wagon through a bridgeless river to a pitiless city full of loveless people.
As it happens to any planned journey which meets with innumerable impediments, this journey is not an exception to it. The morbid picture brought out by the narrators when followed by buzzards wherever they go, while the cats try to scratch the coffin box and the people stand with their hands to their noses, can be quit appalling. Readers with vivid imagination are not advised to imagine much while reading this purifying work of art, and dear book sniffers, try not to sniff this one. There are some quite inexplicable scenes like this one: two of Anse鈥檚 sons are listening under an apple tree to what is going on inside the coffin and one says, amusingly or mockingly, that he can hear her talking, and that, in reality, is nothing but a fatal and natural decomposability.
Death is a kind of sleep which leaves others wide-awake. On her death, almost every character is put into some kind of ordeal: the holy father coming to ask for forgiveness from so-far-faithful husband, her daughter trying to abort her pregnancy, the first son with a broken horse, the second son struggling to give a decent burial to his not-so-loving mother, the third son sacrificing his only possession which, in others鈥� view, is also his mother 鈥� a horse, the youngest one trying to keep the buzzards and cats away from the coffin, and Anse pushing everyone to uphold his promise. Promise is a word, too. Isn鈥檛 it? But what it fills up here is the body of Addie, as she lays dying.
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There are lot of interesting and memorable characters and sentences in this book with narrations varying in tone and style, as in . Like in his other books, poverty and empathy are keys here. There is a couple of another important characters who I have not intentionally bothered as they are busy mourning over the sad demise of their dear mother. In simple words, this is just another masterpiece from Faulkner.
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